


The Coldest Circle of Hell

by OmniscientPhoenix



Series: The Devil's Kiss Sequence [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Childhood Memories, Deal with a Devil, Depression, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Graphic Description, Grieving Dean, Guilty Dean, Guilty Sam, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lucifer's Cage, M/M, Multi, Nightmares, POV Dean Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, POV Third Person, Post-Hell Sam, Post-Season/Series 05, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovery, Sam in Hell, Sam-Centric, Season/Series 06, Season/Series 07, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Soulless Sam Winchester, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-04-21 07:12:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 70,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4820024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmniscientPhoenix/pseuds/OmniscientPhoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester returned from the Cage barely held together by Death's wall.  No one knows that there shouldn't have been anything left after 18 months in hell.<br/>Lucifer offers Sam a deal on his first night in hell; if Sam stops fighting and becomes Lucifer's plaything, Lucifer will give him a reward.  One day a year Sam gets to relive his best and brightest memories.  Sam takes the deal and never regrets it.<br/>That is until he goes home and Castiel shatters the wall.  He's left with horrifying memories and guilt over his deal with Lucifer.  He believes he deserves everything that happened in the pit and he regrets the day he was ever weak enough to give into Satan.  Unable to forgive himself, the hallucinations are closing in and Sam is prepared to end it all.<br/>Only Dean can save Sammy now and he's not about to give him up when he just got his baby brother back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Deal with the Devil

“It was the heat of the moment…”

Sam slams into consciousness and he feels cold sweat bead his skin as he shoots straight up in bed. After all this time goddamn Asia still gives him panic attacks. His fist connects with the alarm clock hard enough to send it tumbling to the floor.

“What the…” because that’s the thing. This room is identical to that one. In fact, this is the same room he spent 362 Tuesdays in, failing to save his brother’s life over and over again.

  
“Well not quite Sammy boy,” says a voice from the door. “It’s not a perfect replica, even your memory isn’t that good.” Sam’s breath catches in his throat and he feels nausea tear through his stomach. “Oh come on, Sam. You’re going to fuck me over like that and say not even say hello.” Sam stares down at the scratchy motel cover, refusing to look up. He doesn’t need to because he’d recognize that voice anywhere. The voice that’s been calling to him his entire life. The voice he’d let in, the voice he’d begged for before he’d gone tumbling into the torn earth, straight into a bottomless pit. He hears muffled footsteps over the filthy carpet and feels the creaking bedsprings shift as his companion takes a seat on the bed next to him. Sam is panting, panic squeezing at his lungs as its strangling fingers claw at his throat.

  
He remembers what happened. Guilt surges as he remembers the the pulverized flesh of Dean's face.  He'd been responsible for that, responsible for the entire debacle.  He's terrified but he knows he deserves this.  After all the pain he's caused, he deserves this cage.  He feels the icy cold coming off the man, the monster sitting next to him. He doesn’t quite understand why he’s back in this shithole motel but it’s beginning to dawn on him exactly where he is.

  
Lucifer leans closer, breathing heavily against Sam’s neck as he studiously avoids Satan’s gaze.  "This is your idea of hell, huh?"  The devil looks around appraisingly for a moment and then laughs.  "Oh, I get it.  My baby bro really did a number on you with that prank of his."

"The one you killed, you mean," Sam still won't meet his gaze, knows its childish.

“Don’t be like that, Sammy. We might as well be friendly with one another,” Lucifer sneers. “Big bro isn’t going to save you from this one. Not this time.” He chuckles a bit and Sam grits his teeth. “Nope, you’re all mine.”

  
“I will never be yours,” Sam meets the other man’s gaze, snarling the words. “I sacrificed everything to make sure you’d rot in this pit. I was willing to.  That doesn't mean I ever wanted you.” Lucifer smiles a bit, a bemused expression that curls his lips but doesn’t quite reach his eyes. No, his eyes show the defiled angel within the man, thousands of years of torture and cold radiating from his dark gaze.

  
“I’m not sure you’re memory’s quite come back you, Sam. You said yes to me. You said yes and that means you are mine.” The demon’s hand shoots forward and Sam feels shocking cold radiate from the man’s finger’s as he clamps them around his jaw. The bones grind together as Lucifer tilts Sam’s head and smiles at him. He reaches another hand forward and strokes his free hand gently over his captive’s cheekbone, Sam flinching violently. “You’ve always been mine.”

  
Sam wants to look away, but he’s frozen in place by the stone hand on his jaw and he can’t look away from the icy hunger in Lucifer’s eye. The angel releases Sam and he falls back onto the bed as the other man rises and begins to wander aimlessly around the room. Sam props himself up on his elbows, body tense, ready to fight against the violent lust in the angel’s eyes.

  
“Relax, Sam.” He laughs. “I’ve got so much in store for you, buuuut..." he pauses plucking at the other queen's bedspread, "it can wait.” He smirks at him, turning away from the flamingo mural on the wall. “I’ll make sure you won’t be able to resist me. Just give it a few years.” Sam feels panic rise in him and he shuts down the nightmares stirring in his imagination.

  
“See I’m going to make you a deal, Sammy,” he picks up a lamp and examines it for a moment before setting it down and gingerly brushing his hands off on his jeans. “This place gets awfully boring when it’s all torture, all the time,” he rolls his eyes. “It’s exhausting for me, it’s exhausting for you and honestly, I think the whole torture aspect loses its touch when it’s all you get.”

  
He’s turned around and he’s approaching Sam now, kicking up little flurries of dust in the nasty old carpet. “So I’ll make you a deal. You let me do what I want, you entertain me, and I’ll give you a very generous offer.”

  
“No fucking chance.” Sam grits his teeth because he doesn’t want to know what Satan considers a generous offer.  Nevermind, he most certainly won’t give up this early in the game. He has hope, a tiny fluttering hope that Dean can save him and if he gives up now there won’t be anything left worth saving when Dean comes for him.

  
Lucifer surges forward and wraps a hand around Sam’s throat, lifting him from the bed single handedly with angelic strength. “Don’t. You. Dare. Samuel.” He growls and Sam feels his heart stutter. Satan releases him and Sam lands on the floor with a clunk, coughing and rubbing at his bruised trachea. Lucifer crouches and turns Sam's chin to face him. “I feel when you hope Sam.  I feel that disgusting sugary hope you have that Dean will save you. And let me explain something to you.” He jerks Sam a bit as he tries to shift his gaze away from the fury in the angel’s eyes. “There is no hope for escape. None. You will rot here forever.”

  
He rises and stares at Sam, glaring up at him from his place on the floor. “Get up.” Sam begins to rise, slowly, obstinately and feels a foot connect with his ribcage. There’s a sharp crack and pain is radiating through his body. He gasps sharply at the pain and feels the jagged slice of bone slide into his lung.  He recognizes a punctured lung and he wonders momentarily what it feels like to die in hell. Then an aching cold radiates through his body, the pain’s gone and he’s being pulled to his feet.

  
He’s eye to eye with Lucifer. “I’m not unreasonable, Sam. I’ll heal your injuries. I’ll even reward you if you’ll make a tiny agreement.  Very little effort on your end even.” Sam still feels a phantom pain in his miraculously healed ribs and he wants to resist Lucifer. He wants so badly to fight, but he knows his situation, knows broken ribs are just the beginning.  He feels the tiny glow of hope in his belly start to wither.

  
“What does Satan consider a generous offer.” He says it flatly, staring obstinately at the other man who smiles, slowly at first and then brilliantly.

  
“Oh Sammy, I’m so glad you asked.” He takes a step forward, his cold breath brushing against Sam’s cheek. “If, and only if, you obey me then I’ll give you a little vacation.” He chuckles.  “Not a real one of course, this is Hell. However, it’s a sandbox, it takes the shape and form of its resident’s nightmares, fears, worst memories.”

  
“I don’t see how that’s supposed to be enticing to me, Lucy,” Sam sneers at him and tries to take a step away but he feels a hand seize his wrist and he’s rooted in place.

  
“Oh but Sam, it let’s you experience your dreams, your most beautiful memories if you know how to work the system. And I just so happen to know how this remarkable piece of angelic engineering works.”

  
Sam freezes and he considers for a moment. “What exactly are you offering?”

  
Lucifer’s smile impossibly widens. “You stop fighting, you become my companion.  In return once a year I’ll give you 24 hours of alone time in your memories. I don’t have to waste my energy subduing you and in return you get to see big bro, Stanford, maybe even that hot little piece of ass Jessica.”

  
“How do I know you’re not lying?” Sam is hesitant, he knows Dean would want him to fight, he knows Dean fought for forty years in his own hell. But, the thought is so tempting, a ray of light in this eternal darkness he’s doomed to.

  
“How about a sneak preview, Sammy?”

  
And the room dissolves in to the sweet sticky heat of a midsummer night. Sam smells smoke and he hears a voice call out from the darkness.

  
“Go grab the fireworks Sammy. We’re gonna make our own fireworks show this year.” Sam’s breath catches in his throat and he turns to see the Impala in the distance, parked on a dirt road amongst the pines. An 18 year old Dean whoops in the distance. “Come on Samantha, we don’t have all night!” Sam feels the memory take a hold of him and tears are gathering in his eyes because it’s the fourth of July 1996 and this isn’t hell at all. This is heaven, pure and sweet and he wants nothing more than to watch the burst of colors in the night sky next to his big brother.

  
“I said I would never lie to you Sam.” He turns and Lucifer is standing there, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he smirks at him.

  
“Sam, come on! You better not be this slow on hunts or I’m just gonna let a wendigo munch on your skinny ass bones.” Sam doesn’t turn towards Dean’s voice, he watches Lucifer warily tears building in his eyes.  This is more than he ever expected, better than his wildest dreams.  

  
“Yes.” He whispers it, shaking in the humid summer night.

  
“Don’t mumble Sammy boy. What was that?”

  
“Yes.” He says it clearly but he knows there are tears streaming down his face.  "I'll stop fighting."

  
“Good boy. I always knew you’d say it someday.” Lucifer smiles at him and takes a step forward. “I think a kiss to seal the deal is in order.”

  
“You’re not a demon. That’s not how it works.” Sam recoils, stumbling over the uneven dirt. An iron grip catches him and pulls him up, and he’s nose to nose with his new master.

  
“It works how I say it works. Now, kiss me.” Sam leans forward, trying to suppress the tears on his cheeks and the kiss is cold and salty. It’s short and little more than a peck, but Sam is overcome with a sea of nausea. Lucifer pulls away first and places a chill hand on his cheek.  He pats him affectionately.

  
“I’ll be back, in 23 hours Sam.” He starts walking away and turns back with a smirk. “Enjoy your big brother.” He’s gone in an instant and Sam’s left alone smearing his tears across his cheeks.

  
“Sammy!” Then he’s running towards Dean's voice, snatching up the box of fireworks.  He has 23 hours and wants every moment.  He lets the memory settle around him, sweet and joyful.

  
Dean smiles at him when he reaches him.  Panting, Sam lets the words fall off his tongue. “You’re the best Dean, dad would never let us do this!” He throws his arms around his brother, dropping the box.  He breathes in the scent of leather and aftershave, and he's home.  He knows this is how he will survive brief moments of memories.  Brief moments of Dean.  

  
And that’s how Sam spends his first night in hell watching fireworks paint the night sky with his brother’s arm draped over his shoulders.


	2. Make me a Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean doesn't deserve happy memories while Sam's rotting in the Cage. That doesn't stop his whiskey fueled dreams from reminding him of days gone by.

It had been days.  Sleepless days and nights spent drinking in the dusk of a cheap motel rooms and sketchy bars.  All he can see when he closes his eyes is Sammy’s terrified face as he dragged Michael and Lucifer with him into the Cage.  He thinks he could’ve changed the outcome, thinks there will be some way to rescue Sam from a fate no one deserves, let alone his baby brother.

That’s why he’s surprised when sleep finally comes it doesn’t bring nightmares with it.  Instead the sticky humidity of a summer’s night surrounds him and he’s struck by a wave of déjà vu.  He’s in the middle of a clearing standing next to Baby.  Humming cicadas blanket the night with ambient noise and there’s the pop of fireworks somewhere in the distance.  The trunk thumps shut and he turns to see a young Sam holding a milk crate of rockets and roman candles.  He recognizes this memory, the first stop on his tour of heaven.  The Fourth of July, 1996 and he doesn’t deserve this memory.  This beautiful, perfect night.  He deserves nightmares and visions of hell because that’s what Sammy has now.    

That thought fades when the fourteen year old Sam beams up at him. “Come on Dean let’s go.”  Sam runs towards the clearing and Dean follows, already reaching out for the bottle rocket Sam hands him.  Lights burst in the sky, the familiar weight of his long-lost lighter in his hand as gunpowder scented smoke fills the night air. 

Reds, greens, whites burst across a canvas of brilliant stars and Dean doesn’t deserve happy memories when he couldn’t save Sammy.  But he can’t resist and the memory sweeps him away.  Sam whoops and shouts, triumphantly spinning under the shower of lights. 

Dean remembers why this particular moment stuck with him for so long.  It’s the look on Sammy’s face; none of the sadness, none of the anger that would slowly build in him until it began to haunt his eyes, a permanent fixture in the coming years.  This moment is cinematic, perfect, glorious even.  That isn’t what matters to Dean. This moment matters because there’s love in Sammy’s eyes as he thanks him and buries his face in Dean’s chest.  Dean wraps himself around the slim body of his brother and he’s so warm, so real that it takes his breath away.  Finally, Sam pulls away and runs to light another firework, whooping in delight as the fuse catches with a sizzle.  He always runs back to Dean after he lights the fuse, standing close as he watches the explosion of colors with wonder.  Truthfully, Dean can’t bring himself to watch the fireworks.  No, he’s watching their reflection in Sammy’s eyes.  There’s joy there and it’s everything that he’s ever wanted for his baby brother, reflected right back with the shower of lights. 

The memory doesn’t end where it did in his heaven, doesn’t end with bullets and burst chest cavities.  No, it continues until there’s no fireworks left and they head back to the Impala.  Dean remembers something else about this night and he smiles as he pops the trunk and pulls out a flannel blanket and the six pack he’d stowed away earlier that night.  He shuts the trunk with a soft thunk and goes to the hood of the car, spreading out the soft fabric.  Sam follows him clambering up onto the hood alongside him.  Dean pops the tabs on two cans and hands one to Sam who stares at it for a moment with a bewildered expression. 

“It’s for drinking, Samantha,” Dean laughs pulling a swig from his own beer.  Sam looks at him accusingly, as if his big brother is trying to get him in trouble.  “Come on man, a little beer never hurt anyone.” 

Sam gingerly takes a sip, his nose wrinkling and Dean can’t suppress a laugh.  A small hand thwacks against Dean’s chest and Sam glares up at him.

“Shut up, dude.  And my name’s not _Samantha_.”  Dean swears Sam’s eyes are going to get lost in the back of his head if he rolls them any harder.  Ugh, how do you drink this stuff?” he’s taking another sip and he can’t quite hide his disgusted expression.  Shrugging, Dean hides his smirk as he takes another gulp. 

“Dunno, man.  Acquired taste,” he slaps Sam across the back who spits up a bit of beer.  “Don’t worry.  You’re a Winchester, if you’re not a highly functioning alcoholic by twenty than I’m not the greatest hunter who ever lived.” 

Sam snorts at that, “What all four hunts you’ve been on?”

“Shut up dude.  I _will_ be the greatest hunter who ever lived.  You’ll see.”  Dean had forgotten this particular exchange, and, yeah, he guesses you could say he and Sammy were the greatest hunters to ever live.  They’d saved the world, put Lucifer and Michael into the cage.  But it doesn’t feel glorious or triumphant. At eighteen he thought he would feel like a hero, that this would have gotten easier with the years.  Instead, he feels ancient, exhausted.  He’s hunted and trained and saved people all these years.  Yet, failure burns hollow in his throat because he failed to save the one thing that mattered most.

Sam’s lost in his own thoughts because he refuses to meet Dean’s gaze.  Rather, he’s watching the stars, the distant pinpricks of light reflected in his wide honey eyes.  The younger boy risks a gulp of Pabst before he speaks again.  “Is that really what you want, Dean?”  He sighs turning to Dean and his eyes sad again.  “Do you really want to be a hunter the rest of your life?  Or is that just what you think dad wants to hear?” 

Dean’s silent a moment, remembering that girl at Sonny’s, how he’d told her he’d wanted to be a rock star.  Silent, remembering the stack of college applications smuggled in his backpack that he’d filled out and never sent off.  He runs a hand through his hair and scrubs at his face, wondering what life would have been like if he had given up hunting.  He supposes the world may have ended but maybe he and Sammy would have had some happy years before all this happened.  Before he lost his baby brother to Lucifer’s cage.  Instead, he says what he said all those years ago.

“Someone’s got to protect those people, Sammy.  No one should ever have to go what we went through.”  They’re both silent for a moment, the soft hum of cicadas ringing out in the quiet of the night.  There’s the pop and crackle of fireworks off in the distance and Dean wonders if those people are having a night like this.  A night that will stay with them forever. 

Sam breathes out slowly.  “Hypothetically, if there were no more monsters, no more hunting?  What would you do, Dean?  Anything in the whole world.”  He’s looking up hopefully when Dean meets his gaze and he thinks for a second. 

“I don’t know.  A rock star, maybe.  I’d go record with Jimmy Page, drink good beer, score hot chicks.”  Sam laughs at him and Dean can see him imagining it. 

“Yeah, I can see that,” he grins into his can, sipping at the lukewarm beer.  “Dean Winchester, international superstar.”

Dean chuckles, “What about you buddy?  What would the genius Sam Winchester do if all the monsters disappeared?”  Sam blushes softly, his pink cheeks barely visible in the dim light of the stars. 

“I dunno,” he shrugs his tiny, hoodie clad shoulders.  “I haven’t really thought about it.” 

Dean punches his little brother in the arm, “Bullshit.  I know you, Sam.  There’s no way you don’t have some dream job tucked away in that noggin of yours.”

Sam mumbles something and Dean raises his eyebrows at him.  “Come on.  Speak up, Doctor Winchester.”

 “Whatever,” he scoffs.  He pauses a second.  “I kinda, think being a lawyer would be cool,” he rubs sheepishly at the base of his neck and Dean thinks about Stanford.  Thinks about how close he came to achieving that exact dream.  Aching for that reality, he tells Sam what he needs to hear in this moment. 

“I like it, Sammy,” he holds out his beer can that Sam obligingly toasts.  “Dean Winchester international rock star and Sam Winchester attorney at law.  You’ll get me out of trouble someday, I bet.”

Sam drops his empty can to the ground and scoots closer to him, curling into his side. 

“We could do those things, Dean.  We don’t have to be hunters.”  He says it quietly and Dean hears hope tinged with grief in his brother’s voice. 

“Maybe, Sammy.  Maybe, someday,” he lies to his brother.  He reaches for another beer and realizes the pattern this sets for the coming years.  He’ll lie again and again to Sam, and then reach out for alcohol to blur the guilt settling in his chest.  It’s too late now though, the time to change the past is gone.  He swallows the bitter taste of hops and wraps his arm around his little brother as they gaze up at the stars. 

They’re silent for a long time, watching the stars.  He feels sleep pulling him under, the warm weight of Sam pressed into his side.

“Thanks, Dean.  This was great.”  Dean feels the muffled vibrations of Sam’s voice travel up his chest. 

“Anytime, buddy.  We’ll have to do this next year.”  Sam nods against his chest.  He’s falling asleep and this is the perfect end to this night.  Drifting off under the stars, the solid warmth of Sam in his arms.      

“Dean, I miss you already.  Can you make me a promise?”  That’s not young Sam’s voice, it’s older and deeper.  Through the oncoming haze of sleep, Dean wonders what future Sam is doing speaking in a nine year old memory.

“Anything, Sam.  Anything for you.”  He mumbles it, eyes drooping shut.

“Go be a rock star.  Be happy with Lisa.”  Dean feels dry, warm lips rasp against his cheek and he leans into the touch.  “At least one of us gets our someday.”

Dean starts awake in his motel room.  Memories flood back of the last few months and thoughts of Lucifer’s Cage threaten to overpower the lingering dream of fireworks and warm beers.  But, he remembers his last words in the dream and even though he doesn’t understand why that particular promise intruded on the memory he refuses to lie to Sam again.

He sits up unsteadily, frowning at the boots and jacket he never bothered to take off last night. He fumbles for his phone in his pocket.  Squinting in the shadowy room against the bright glow of the screen, he scrolls until he finds what he’s looking for. 

He needs to steel himself, needs to brace for the coming conversation because he’s going to have to say the words out loud and it’s a truth he doesn’t want to admit to himself.  Liquid courage has never failed him before so he take a moment to search for the mostly empty bottle of Jack that rolled under the bed last night.  He pulls out the stopper and finishes its contents in a single gulp before he presses call. 

It only rings for a couple moments before a woman picks up on the other line.

“Lisa?”  He takes a deep breath and rubs his free hand over his eyes.  “Sam’s gone.  For good this time.”

  

  


	3. Hell of a Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer expects Sam to live up to his half of the bargain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: This chapter has a trigger warning for graphic depictions of rape and torture.
> 
> If you have personally been impacted by sexual assault and need help please contact:  
> The National Rape Hotline at 1-800-656-HOPE or visit ohl.rainn.org for 24/7 support

“The heat of the moment telling you what your heart meant…”

Suddenly, Sam isn’t curled into his brother’s side on top the Impala.  Asia's blaring over tinny alarm clock speakers and he doesn’t need to open his eyes to know he's back in his own personal hell.  He knows the flamingo murals and mustard yellow covers well enough from the nightmares they starred in back home; he doesn't need to look at them.  He listens to Asia for a moment, savoring the whisper of gunpowder and warm beer that’s clinging to him. 

“Rise and shine, Sammy.” 

But it’s not Dean’s voice coming from the bed next to him.  Sam shuts his eyes tighter and considers feigning sleep.  Wonders if you can sleep in hell.  

"Aww, come on.  Don't be like that.  I know you're awake."

Sam sits up reluctantly, and turns toward Lucifer who’s giving him a shit-eating grin from his perch on the edge of the other queen bed.  

“How was your night, Sam?”  Lucifer smiles at him and leans forward.  “Hope it's enough to last you 364 days,” he gives him a wink.  “Get up and get ready.  We’ve got a long day ahead of us, Sammy.”  Sam looks down at the mustard covers and wonders what would happen if he refused.  Wonders what the consequences would be if he resisted. 

“Nothing you would like.”  Lucifer’s says it nonchalantly, vehemence disguised under the statement of fact.  At this point Sam has accepted that Lucifer seems to be able to pick up on his thoughts, as uncomfortable as the idea makes him.  “Besides, Sam I thought you enjoyed yourself last night.  You wouldn’t want that to be a one-time arrangement.  Would you?”  Sam absorbs the threat, remembers the solid heat of Dean and the showering lights.  He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands slowly, meeting Lucifer’s gaze defiantly.  They’re close, too close for his liking but he refuses to step away.  Refuses to give into the fear slowly coming to a boil in his stomach. 

“I’ve got big plans for us today, Sam,” the angel smiles up at him.  “Why don’t we visit some of _my_ favorite memories of yours?”

The room dissolves and Sam doesn’t immediately recognize the place.  It’s a burnt husk of someone’s home and the fetid scent of charred flesh hangs heavy in the stale air.  Then he sees the burnt threads of beads hanging in the bedroom door and the remains of an ugly couch he and Jess picked up in a thrift store for cheap.  His stomach lurches.  He’d come back here after Jess' death.  Braved the pain and death of this place to remind himself what he was fighting for.  What he was fighting against. 

Lucifer’s talking though, breaking through his reverie. 

“See, Sam.  I don’t understand why some shitty motel room is your worst fear.  Why that’s your so-called hell home base.”  Lucifer drags a finger through a pile of ash on an end table a looks at it appraisingly before flicking it in the air.  “I get the whole dead Dean thing and the infinite Tuesdays," he shrugs his shoulders, "but, when it comes to dead loved ones you have so many choices.”  He smiles to himself, "It's what made you such a good vessel for me.  All that pain and death left a hole in you."  He shrugs again admiring the empty shell of Sam's life with Jessica.  "Not to worry.  I can let you see all of the memories that brought us together."

The room shifts again and Sam can’t breathe.  Pale green walls and dark wood floors surround him.  Two bodies litter the floor, but only one matters to him.  It's Dean.  Dean lying in a pool of blood, his chest torn to ribbons and Sam falls to his knees before what he’s doing can register.  He’s crawling through the blood, trying to reach the only person who matters.

He knows this is a memory.  Knows that Dean comes back in the end.  Nevertheless, grief shreds through him when his bloody hands register icy skin and glazed eyes.  This is Dean after  hell had collected on his deal. 

This is apparently one of Lucy's favorite memories and Sam feels rage surge through him.  Years later and the iron smell of Dean's blood pervades his nightmares, waking him in a cold sweat with his brother's name on his lips.

"This one was such a good one."  Sam can hear the smirk playing around Lucifer's lips.  "It led you right to me in the end."  There's a pause and Sam can feel the cold radiating off the angel as he looms over him.  

Lucifer speaks up again.  “Or you know, there’s always Daddy dearest.” 

The room shifts again and Sam’s kneeling on cold linoleum.  His father lays prone next to him and Sam stops himself from reaching out this time.  He'd forgotten how this particular grief felt.  It's not the same as his grief for Dean.  That grief hurts, but it's tempered by the knowledge he saved Dean in the end. He never got a chance to save his father and he knows it will haunt him as long as he lives. 

“Or how about the very beginning of our story?” Lucifer chuckles a bit in the background. 

Sam’s on the ground next to a crib and blood drips from the ceiling onto his face.  He knows better than to look up, knows what he'll see.  But, he can't resist it and he meets his mother’s eyes as the ceiling bursts into flames.  He shouts jumping to his feet and it doesn’t matter that these are memories.  They’re wrought with pain and horror and he wants to save his family.  He wants to save them and he’s an observer, the audience for every moment that demons facilitated to bring him to Lucifer.  He's watching a montage of how he ruined his family's lives.  

He's reaching out for his mother when the room shifts again. 

They're back at the motel, Asia still playing in the background and Lucifer is behind him, standing much too close for Sam’s liking.  “I know, I know.  Mommy’s such old news but, classics are got that way for a reason.”

Sam loses control then.  He shoots up turning to face the angel.  He seizes the other man by his collar and pulls him up so they’re eye to eye.  “You destroyed everything.  You killed everyone I ever loved.  And I still beat you.” 

Sam’s on the floor faster than he can blink and there’s a heavy knee pressing into his spine.  A hand seizes a handful of hair and yanks until he’s convinced his neck will snap.

“Won, Sammy?”  Lucifer’s sneer is evident in his voice and Sam grips the carpet in his sprawled out hands, grimacing against the pain.  “Does this feel like a victory to you?”  Sam’s face slams into the carpet, his teeth cutting into his lips and blood gushing from his nose.  “You're all mine down here and you can't stop me.”  Lucifer shifts just enough to flip him over, so they're face to face.  He straddles Sam, pinning the larger man’s hands above his head.  Sam can’t look away from the burning rage and hunger in his captor’s gaze and he squirms beneath the heavy weight.  Instinct tells him to struggle.  Every nerve in his body needs to escape the intentions in the angel’s eyes.  He tries to pull away, even as the black and blue of bruises surface on his wrists.  “Stop.  Moving.”  The cold demand is hissed between teeth and Sam freezes baring bloodied teeth up at his tormentor. 

“You need a punching bag, Lucy,” Sam hisses.  “Do your worst.  I’ll take anything you’ve got because I saved the world.  I saved Dean.”  Lucifer releases his hands and rears back in laughter, applauding Sam as if he'd just told the best joke he'd ever heard. 

“Oh, oh Sam,” he wipes at mirthful tears, "you've always had such a funny bone.  I bet Dean doesn’t make it a month before he swallows a bullet," Lucifer smirks down at him.  "It’s nice that you think that, though.  You're just naive enough that it's sweet.”  He leans back, shifting most of his weight to rest on Sam’s groin and Sam’s becomes suddenly invested in staying completely still.

Lucifer seems to sense Sam’s fear because he gives him a hungry grin.  “Oh, Sammy.  You worry too much.”  He's on his feet in an instant, leaving Sam to spit blood on the floor.   

Sam turns onto his side watching Lucifer warily, using his hand to wipe bloody saliva from his lips.  Lucifer’s turned his back to him and Sam goes stiff when he registers what the other man is doing.  He’s removing his belt from his jeans and Sam scrambles into sitting position, ready to fight back. 

“Sam, you promised me you wouldn’t fight,” Lucifer says it in a low voice and Sam backs away until the nightstand's knobs dig into his spine. 

“Don’t do this,” Sam is pleading.  Shame simmers in the pit of his stomach but the fear cancels out any sense of dignity.  He doesn’t want cold skin pressed against his, doesn’t want to be Satan’s toy.  “Please, anything but that.”  Sam hears the fear painting his voice.

Lucifer turns to him, eyes cold as he folds the belt in his hands.  “Sam, didn't I tell you not to worry.  It’s not what you think.”  He’s walking towards him and Sam braces for a fight, prepared to fight against the lustful gaze of his own personal devil.  When he’s close enough Sam can feel the cold radiating off of him, Lucifer crouches down.  They’re nose to nose and Sam summons what little bravery he has left to meet the other man’s gaze. 

“Do you remember last night, Sammy?’ 

And of course he does.  It’s one of the best memories he has and he knows he'll need it in the days to come. 

“If you fight back.  Even one single time, all that goes away.”  Lucifer snaps his fingers and they’re back in the house where Dean died for the first time, his brother’s mangled corpse visible behind Lucy.  “Instead I’ll let you sit Shiva for big brother here, over and over and over again.” 

The motel fades back in an instant, pink flamingos visible behind the angel’s silhouette.  Sam is silent. 

One day a year of freedom.  Three hundred and sixty-four of fear and pain.  It goes against everything he’s ever been taught to simply roll over, to give up.  But he knows that this is most likely his eternity.  Even if he’s lucky and Dean comes for him, he needs to survive, needs to cope somehow.  Otherwise, there won't be anything left to save.  And that’s why he says the words he’ll regret when the time comes.

“Take whatever you want.  Just hold up on your end of the deal.”  Sam shuts his eyes and waits for the sound of a zipper but it never comes. 

A laugh sounds through the air, cold and malevolent. 

“Sam, calm down,” Sam opens his eyes to meet Lucifer’s gaze.  “I’m not going to _rape_ you.” 

Against all odds, he feels a sigh of relief escape his chest.  Lucifer never lied to him, that much was true.  The other man stands, and Sam remembers the belt in his hands a split second before its heavy steel buckle slams into jaw.  Pain shocks through his system as his knees hit the carpet.  He stops himself from getting up, suppresses the instinct to deal back as good as he got.  Sam stares at the ugly carpet waiting for the next blow, limp and compliant. 

“Get up.”  He gets to his feet slowly, staring fixedly at the floor.  He refuses to meet the Lucifer's gaze, regardless of the pain blooming in his jaw. 

A fist plows into his abdomen and he slumps to his knees again, suppressing a groan.  “Strong and silent, Sammy.”  Lucifer’s standing behind him and Sam can't feels dread tense his muscles.  “I like that in a man.”  The belt loops around Sam’s neck and he’s dragged a few feet, to the bed he still thinks of as Dean’s.  He claws fruitlessly at the leather, panic taking hold as the oxygen leaves his brain.  Lucifer tightens the belt and Sam can faintly hear laughter as the world starts to go black. 

The moment before unconsciousness seizes him, Lucifer releases him and Sam lets out a grunt as he tumbles to the carpet.  He gasps for air and rubs at his bruised trachea, savoring the sweet burn of oxygen as his lungs expand. 

There's no rest, no mercy and It’s not more than a second before a heavy boot slams into his rib cage.  Ribs crack but Lucifer doesn’t stop this time, doesn't heal the injuries.  Instead he slams his foot into the broken ribs.  Over and over and Sam can’t breathe with the incessant pain.  He’s trying to shut down, trying to go inside himself like Dad taught then, but it doesn’t seem to make a difference.  He can feel every blow, even as he tries to lose himself in memories of Jess' skin, the sound of Led Zeppelin playing over the Impala's speakers.  Finally, the incessant kicking stops and a clammy hand hauls him up by the collar of his shirt.  A thunk sounds through the room as his stomach slams into Dean’s bed 

“Take off your shirt, Sam.”  He doesn’t want to move, can feel jagged edges of his ribs as they grind together.  Lucifer senses the thought though because he speaks up.  “The faster you do it the sooner this will be over with.” 

He slides off the bed to do it, falling to his knees in a cruel caricature of bedtime prayer.  Sam's trembling fingers reach up and gingerly slide the shirt up and over his head.  He can see the black and blue spreading over his chest, shakes with the aching misery of each breath.  He drops the bloody shirt to floor as he stands.  

A cold hand pushes him face down onto the bed and he grunts as mattress springs press up into broken bones.  He knows what's coming but it doesn’t stop him the pain when the thick buckle bites into the flesh of his back.  He thinks the sheer force of the blows should kill him, hopes they will.  But, Hell knows no mercy and he knows he'll survive this and more.  He knows the Cage won’t let him die. 

The metal bites into him over and over again and he knows the exact moment the belt starts drawing blood from his raw flesh.  He holds back every groan, every shout, flinching with each blow. 

It seems to go on for hours and he barely registers when the blows finally come to a halt.  Thick rivulets of blood run down his shoulders and he can hear the soft, drip, drip of it hitting the carpet. 

Lucifer approaches silently and Sam can’t move, can’t summon the energy to flinch when cold hands touch his own.  Lucifer yanks his arms in front of him on the bed, wrapping the belt around his wrists and knotting it tightly.  He's almost strangely gentle in his movements and Sam’s pain wracked mind can’t understand why Satan has moved on to gingerly pulling the boots from Sam’s feet.  It isn’t until two icy hands reach around to his zipper that it dawns on Sam exactly what he has in mind.

He stiffens, his muscles bunching and he wishes desperately that he could stop this.

“Don’t fight, Sammy.  I’d hate to take Dean away from you.” 

Instinct screams, rages, burns.  Every nerve shouts  _run_.   Then images fill his mind; his big brother, the Impala, long nights spent drinking cheap beer in shitty motel rooms.  Happy memories quiet the instinct and for the first time in his life, he gives up.

It almost makes it okay when Sam feels the cold touch of Lucifer's fingers sliding off the Levi's Dean once bought him after a hunt gone bad.  The soft snick of the zipper that follows sounds deafening in the quiet of the room.  Blood continues to drip, drip, drip into the dusty carpet and every breath chokes him as his broken ribs grind together.  Tears wet his face and this is a fear he's never experienced before.  He's bent over his brother's bed, waiting for the inevitable and shame burns in him because he said “Take anything you want”.  He asked for this and now he's given up.  He's yielding to the demon who's tainted his entire life. 

“Spread your legs.”  He does it, lethargic in his movements and he closes his eyes as cold hands pull slowly at his boxers.  When they hit the floor Sam steps out of them before he can be asked.  He wants this over and he’s praying, praying to anyone who will listen that this is quick. 

“Relax for me, Sammy.”  There’s a tenderness to Lucifer’s voice and Sam knows the angel's dreamed of this moment for a very long time.  Gulping, he tries desperately to suppress the nausea churning his gut.  His hands uselessly bound in front of him, he shudders at Lucifer’s first touch, gentle fingers painting a trail through the blood on his back.  “You’re so beautiful Sam.  The perfect vessel.”  Then there’s icy fingers slick with warm blood wrapped around Sam’s limp cock and Satan's vessel can't hold back the sob that chokes its way out of him.  A hand strokes up and down and Sam burns with shame as his cock gives the first treacherous twitch, cursing every nerve ending in his body as he grows harder with each stroke. 

“Oh so good for me, Sammy.  So good.”  The hand leaves his cock and he feels Lucifer dragging his fingers through the rivers of blood on his back.  He doesn’t understand until he feels a blood slick finger at his entrance.  “Don't tense up, Sam.  I promise, I’ll make this good for you.”  Then he’s hyper aware of the burn as Lucifer slides a single finger past the first ring of muscle. 

He's almost sick when Lucifer brushes his prostate the first time and his whole body shudders with pleasure.  “That’s right.  Relax.”  And it’s only a matter of time before a second and third slick finger join the first and pleasure rocks through him, disregarding the agony wracking his body.  He feels his cock heavy with blood pressed against the bed and he’s screaming internally.  He wants to feel the pain, wants the pleasure to vanish because he doesn't want to enjoy this.  He doesn't want this and his cock doesn't seem to realize it. 

He panics when the fingers slide out of him with a _pop_  and he feels a the thick cock head pressing against his entrance. 

“Oh, god.  Please don’t do this.”  He sobs the words, breaking under the fear, pleading for mercy. 

“I’m sorry, Sam.  God can’t hear you down here.”  Lucifer slams into him, and Sam can’t help it when he screams as Lucifer bottoms out.  He doesn't have time to get used to the burn before Lucifer starts to move in slow, steady strokes.  Sam feels the blood slick hand return to his cock and he shuts his eyes  as the angel above him increases his pace. 

It isn’t long before an orgasm begins to build and it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t want this.  His body is overwrought with pain and its responding to the pleasure without his consent. 

It feels like hours have passed when the pleasure in Sam’s belly decides it can’t be ignored anymore.  “Come for me, Sammy.  I know you want to.”  Lucifer  pants the words and Sam feels the orgasm rip through his body, come splattering the mustard covers and his stomach in equal measure. 

Sam feels the hot gush of come as he clenches around Lucifer's cock  and then Lucifer collapses heavy on top of his blood slick back, breathing heavily. 

They lie there for a moment and then Lucifer peels himself away from Sam's prone body.  Sam lays there listening as the angel finds his clothes and dresses himself.  Pain blurs his thoughts and he won’t allow himself to process what happened.  He can’t help but flinch when he hears footsteps approaching, but Lucifer simply removes the restraints from his hands. 

Sam takes that as a sign that he’s done and he drops to his knees on the floor, opening his eyes to stare at the scarlet stained carpet. 

He hears Lucifer walking towards the door and Sam can’t help but ask the question burning in him. 

“You said you wouldn’t-,” Sam stops.  “You wouldn’t do that.  I thought you never lied?”  Sam regrets the question when he hears the footsteps stop and start again, this time heading in his direction. 

Lucifer crouches next to him and presses his lips close to his ear.

“I didn’t rape you, Sam.  You said yes.”  The cold breath brushes past his ear.  "Take anything you want.  And I want _you_."  Then Lucifer’s up and heading towards the door again. 

The door opens and Lucifer pauses.  “You and I are gonna have a hell of a time, Sammy.” 

The light flicks off and the door swings shut leaving Sam in complete darkness.  He collapses to the floor and he can't bring himself to move, agony tearing through his body with every breath. 

Only three hundred and sixty-three days to go.   


	4. Apple Pie Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy always wanted an apple pie life for Dean.  
> All Dean wants is Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: this chapter contains a trigger warning for brief mentions of suicide and implied rape.
> 
> If you are considering suicide please contact:  
> 1-800-273-TALK if you live in the United States and need to talk  
> OR  
> If you are in immediate danger please call 911 or your local emergency services  
> If you have been personally impacted by sexual assault please contact:  
> The National Rape Hotline at 1-800-656-HOPE or visit ohl.rainn.org for 24/7 support

It's been two long months since that night he dreamed about the Fourth of July.  Two months plagued by nightmares, where Sammy calls out to him and he stands watch over the broken shell of his brother in a dark motel room.  

He remembers the first night he'd stumbled through Lisa's door, the way the door had swung open to reveal her sweet brown eyes clouded with concern.

She holds the door open for him and he staggers past her, heading for the couch he collapses onto a moment later.  He closes his eyes, pressing his palms against his eye sockets as he fights against the tears gathering there.

He feels the couch shift as she joins him and she's maintaining her distance.  He senses that she's afraid to come any closer to this husk of a man she once believed she could love.  

"Dean, what happened," her voice is soft, tentative as if she doesn't want to open fresh wounds.

Dean takes a deep breath and lifts his head to meet her gaze.    

“I let him die.  I let my brother die.”  He can see Ben standing behind her at the foot of stairs, shock contorting his face and Dean figures his mom hasn't told him yet.  She hasn't told him about the dead man who'd saved him twice now.  Lisa follows Dean's gaze and she frowns, wrinkling her forehead.    

“Ben, go upstairs.  We'll talk in the morning.”  The little boy disappears after a moment, running up the stairs and Lisa turns back to Dean.  "I'm sure there's nothing you could've done, Dean.  With what you guys do-," she corrects herself, "did.  It was only a matter of time before you met something even you couldn't beat."

Dean laughs at that, a hysterical note in his voice as the tears break through and his voice cracks.

"That's the best part.  He  _did_ beat them," Dean wipes furiously at the tears staining his cheeks.  "He won and he's still dead.  Trapped in hell with Lucifer for all eternity because I couldn't figure out a way to save him from his goddamn suicide mission".    _  
_

He leans back against  the couch and she pats him on the knee, before standing up and going to the kitchen.  He’s left staring at Ben’s math homework littering the coffee table. 

It’s only a moment before she’s back with a glass of water, condensation beading its cool surface.  “I put on a pot of coffee”.  She places the water in his hand and joins him once more on the couch.  “You need to sober up, Dean.  It's one thing to grieve, but _this_ -," she gestures to him vaguely, from his greasy hair to his whiskey stained shirt and grungy  jeans, "it's not healthy." 

He snorts at that, scratching absentmindedly at the stubble cropping up on his jaw.  “Sobering up might kill me, Lisa.  And Sam's not here to bring me back this time.”  He says the last words vehemently and immediately regrets revealing his most private wish to this woman he barely knows anymore. 

They're both silent, acknowledging the underlying meaning in his words.  She sighs then and when he meets her eyes he sees the sadness in them, the worry.

"Sam sacrificed himself so you could live, Dean.  Don't forget that," she places a hand on his knee and he knows it's meant to be comforting.  Instead, it irks at him and he doesn't want to be touched.  He wants to be alone so he can drink until he finds his Sammy hidden away in memories disguised as dreams.  "You should try to sober up.  Don't let Sam's sacrifice mean nothing."

He wishes Sam hadn't sacrificed himself in the first place.  He knows he's a sick bastard but given the choice again he'd let the world burn before he watched his brother tumble into hell.  

The room’s silent, the bittersweet scent of coffee beginning to drift through the house. 

"There's really no bringing him back this time?”  She’s reluctant to ask and if he’s not mistaken grief tinges her voice.  He remembers how Sam had helped save her son and it makes sense.  Any life Sam touched he generally left for the better and Dean wonders how many people would grieve if they knew Sammy was gone. 

He can’t reply right away.  He can’t explain how it felt to watch his brother overcome Lucifer, how it felt to watch his brother do the impossible only to lose him forever.  The impossible distance of hell separates them and he knows this time it's forever.

“Dean?”

He sighs and it’s weighted with impossible grief.  A fatal breed of grief that isn't overcome through seven easy steps and a couple of years.  Instead it worms its way into its victims, consumes everything they once were until there's no choice.  They search out the person that sparked the grief in the first place and they pay their way across river Styx with a razor blade or bullet. 

“He saved us, Lisa.  He saved the world and I can’t save him this time.” 

She offers him her hand and leads him up to bed, coffee forgotten.  She doesn't turn on the lights, instead pushing him to bed so she can gently remove his boots and jacket.  He pulls off the stained t-shirt and jeans himself, unwilling to feel someone else's hands on his skin.  He lays down, curling up on top of the covers facing the wall.  He feels the creaking shift of bed springs as she joins him.  A tentative hand brushes his shoulder and he knows Lisa doesn't want him to feel alone, wants to offer him physical contact.  He doesn't want to be touched, doesn't want the comfort she offers.  Instead he pulls away, guilt curling in his belly as she lets out a sigh.  They take separate sides of the bed not touching, worlds apart in the foot between them. 

They fall asleep that way every night for months, not talking about the man in the space between them.

* * *

“Do you have any experience in construction, Mr. Smith?”  The human resources lady looks at him coolly over tortoise shell glasses.  He's not entirely sure this office isn't a converted broom closet and he shifts uncomfortably in the chair that's as cramped as the rest of the room.  The fluorescent lights flicker across the grey walls and carpet.  In fact, if Dean hadn’t been a guest of the Casa Inferno for forty years he’d think this was hell.  The woman sneers at him and he knows that she doesn't think highly of him.

“No, not professionally, ma'am.  My dad taught me a whole lot though.”  He’s not lying about that.  He used saws and hammers and nail guns plenty in his last profession.  He's not legally required to disclose he used them to dismember monsters right before setting their corpses on fire.  At least he doesn't think so.  

The woman, a Ms. Hamish, continues and Dean can feel the disdain rolling off of her.  “Well, it’s a simple enough job and we offer hands on training,” she scribbles something on her clipboard.  “Now normally, I'd be reluctant to offer someone without any experience a job.  Unfortunately, we're rather short staffed at the moment and beggars can't be choosers."  She gives him what appears to be her best impression of a smile.  "We’d like to offer you a job.  Probationary for the first few months, of course.” 

Dean thinks this company must be awfully short staffed, because he looks like hell, too thin and exhausted.  He'd tried his best to get a good night's sleep last night and he's not a Valium guy; needless to say he's feeling a little queasy from the half handle of whiskey he'd used as a sleep aid last night.  

Even with the liquor though, he'd bolted awake at 3 am last night in a cold sweat and he knows he looks like shit.  It doesn’t matter that he’s wearing his best shirt tucked into his best jeans.  Despite his nicest clothes, he looks like the grief stricken, alcoholic he is and he’s surprised they hadn’t turned him away at the door.

He doesn’t want to work in a place like this.  But he knows the physical labor will be good for him, will distract him from grief that's eating him alive.  He promised Sam he'd survive, live the apple pie life and he has to try.

"Thank you, ma'am.  I promise I won't let you down."  He smiles at her and he doesn't blame her for disbelief held in the tight corners of her mouth.

He hands over the fake credentials he’d whipped up after Sammy’s death and he knows Sam would laugh at his sloppy workmanship.  They're certainly not the best he has at his disposal; after all his little brother had always been better with forgery.  He'd left Sam's box of fakes in Baby's trunk though, because Dean can’t bring himself to use any of those old aliases.  All of those fake identities come as part of a matching set: two IDs, two badges, two birth certificates.  He’s lost the other half of the set and he refuses to use something that Sammy had created for the both of them. 

It doesn’t seem to matter though, because the Ms. Hamish doesn’t even raise an eyebrow as she inputs his information and minutes later he walks out the door, meaningless job in tow.

He'd come here today because he can’t handle being a burden on Lisa anymore.  He’s stopped eating for the most part and his uptake doesn’t cost much, in fact he's paid for what little he uses with the emergency stash of pool earnings he'd kept in the glove box.  But his cash is dwindling and she’s been kind, hasn’t asked anything from him.  If he can repay her kindness by helping her out with the bills he’s more than eager to.

More than anything, he wants to pay her back for the nights he wakes up in a cold sweat and slides out of bed to lay sleeplessly on the couch with a bottle of Jack grasped in a shaking hand.  Wants to pay her back for long nights spent hunched over lore books, searching fruitlessly for some way, any way to save Sam. 

He doesn’t even know how to define their relationship anymore.  He helps her around the house, helps her with Ben, even shares her bed.  Yet, they don’t touch, don’t talk about how Dean came to her a broken shell of his old self and he doesn't seem any closer to fixing himself than he was the night he arrived.

He heads to parking lot, getting into Lisa's white pickup silently.  He grips the wheel tightly and he hates how alien it feels in his hands. 

Baby’s stowed away in the garage, hidden under a tarp, still beaten and broken from where Lucifer had slammed Dean into the hood.  He knows he needs to fix her, heal the only remaining member of his family.  But, he can’t bring himself to touch her because she's home and he can't go home if he doesn't have his brother in tow.  His little brother’s bags  are still stowed away in the trunk and he can't see them or touch them.  He can't feed his grief much more before it consumes him. 

It’s not long before he’s back, unlocking the door with the key Lisa had silently handed him a week into his stay.  He’s alone in the house, the lights off, only dim sunlight filtering through the blinds to catch the dust motes as they dance through the air.  Lisa works during the day and Ben's still at school and he's never been more glad to have a moment to himself.  He goes to the kitchen cabinet and pulls out the bottle of amber liquid hidden away in the corner of the highest shelf.  He doesn’t bother with a glass, just chugs, gulping at the alcohol his diet primarily consists of these days.  When he’s done he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and returns the bottle to its place, significantly emptier than when he started.

He goes to the couch then, kicking off his boots and peeling off his jacket before he sprawls out on it, an arm flung over his eyes to block out the afternoon light.  He feels the warm alcohol hum, buzzing in his veins and he hopes it’s enough to guard against the nightmare that haunts him every night. 

It doesn’t and when he drifts off to sleep he’s in a shadowy room listening to the quiet sobs that permeate his dreams almost every night. 

“Dean.  Oh god, Dean.”  Dean stands in the doorway of a motel room, and even in the dark he knows it’s the same setting as the rest of these nightmares.  Flamingo murals dot the walls, ugly mustard comforters cover the beds and his baby brother’s voice calls out to him.  The first time he'd had this dream he’d been too afraid to go towards his brother’s voice.  Instead, he’d stood in the doorway, nausea churning his stomach as he took in all the blood.  It covered every surface, scarlet pools on the carpet, splatters on the wall, even smears on the sheets. 

He approaches this time, as he has every night since the first and he knows what he’ll see. 

Sammy’s naked, covered in scars and cuts and blood instead of his classic plaid, curled on his side quietly sobbing, agony wracking his every breath.  “Please be happy, Dean.  It’s all worth it if you’re happy.”  Dean feels sick inside as he kneels next to his brother, knowing that this dream Sam doesn’t know he’s here, that he won't respond to his brother's touch or voice.  But sometimes, he seems to sense Dean’s presence and it seems to sooth him.  Sometimes, he’ll even calm long enough that he drifts off to sleep.

Dean knows his guilt must have sparked this recurring nightmare.  Knows this sick dream of his consists of his worst fears for Sam.  The bloody, broken man on the floor sobs every night, calling out to the brother that couldn't save him and Dean can only pray his baby brother isn't suffering like this.

He feels sick every time he sees the physical agony that wracks his brother each night.  But, what floors him is the implication of other crimes, things darker than torture.  He can only guess why this Sam is rarely wearing clothing when he finds him and he’s seen the bruises on his hands and hips often enough to know ugly things far worse than broken bones or beatings happen in this motel room.

Every night he simply sits close by, watching and wishing he could help even this dream of his brother.  

He settles himself into sitting position and decides to try a different approach.  Decides it doesn't matter if Sam can hear or feel him.  

“I miss you, buddy.  I miss you so much and you’ll never know.”  Dean leans down and presses a chaste kiss to his brother’s temple, sticky with sweat and blood.  He pulls of his best shirt and lays down then, propping himself up on one elbow in the blood pooling on the carpet.  When he's settled he presses the fabric tenderly to the blood slowly seeping from the thick lashes on his baby brother’s back.  He touches him tenderly remembering all the nights he spent tending to Sam's wounds after hunts.

“Shh, Sammy.  It’s gonna be okay.”  He can hear Sam’s breath calming, can hear the pain diminishing as he slows his breathing.  Dean knows Sam has broken ribs tonight, can feel his brother’s shoulders tense every time he takes a breath.  He lays at his brother’s side, gently clearing away the evidence of his ongoing torture.

“Dean, I miss you so much.”  Sam whispers the words and the dream limits his interactions with his imaginary brother, but that doesn’t stop himself from replying, from trying to reach his brother.

“I miss you, too.”  He pauses, eyes following the trail of blood running down his brother’s bare body.  The first couple of times he had felt intrusive, seeing this much of his brother without his permission, not daring to touch the other man.  But Dean realizes that he can still help this memory of Sam as he seems to lean into his big brother's touch.  Fuck propriety, his touch seems to sooth the pain and if he can help he’s going to.

He momentarily thinks Sam would be beautiful if not for the mess of scars and pain carved into his warm, tan skin.  He understands the way women and men used to glance at his little brother, even if he’s only seen Sam's body through a filter of blood and fear.

“Hey, Sammy.  Do you remember that time dad took us to an amusement park for a case?”  He smiles sadly to himself, as he fruitlessly tries to scrub away his brother’s suffering.  He can clear away the blood, but he'll always be met with a network of scars and raw flesh that he can't heal.  Instead, he keeps talking, hoping some of it gets through to Sam.  “Man, we had such a blast.  Rode every ride in the damn park.  Frontier something or other and you were only what? Seven, eight, maybe.”  Dean chuckles a little bit, remembering Sam’s face when he’d walked through the gates.  “We wanted to ride the biggest ride there and you were an inch too short.  And man I’d never seen you that disappointed.  You were devastated and so I went up to that shithead teenager and slipped him all the souvenir money dad gave me.”  Dean sighs softly, the blood finally slowed to trickle.  He’s gentle as he scoots slower to Sam who’s completely silent, as if he can actually hear Dean’s story.  He lays down then, almost spooning the larger man, separated by a hairsbreadth of space so Dean doesn't reopen the fresh wounds. 

“Man, that bastard tried to tell me no at first.  Told me, "you think I’m gonna lose my job for twenty bucks kid,” Dean laughs for real then and he can almost swear he hears Sam chuckle sleepily in front of him.  “And I told him, “You can earn twenty bucks or an ass whooping, it’s your choice”.  And damn if that chicken shit didn’t turn green and just let us pass.  Scared of a twelve year old, man.”  Dean shakes his head, grinning from ear to ear.  “That was a great day, Sammy.  One of the best.” 

He hears the sleep pulling at Sam’s every breath and he lays there silently for a long time, feeling the warmth radiate off his brother’s bare skin.  His brother falls asleep first and Dean prays the pain's faded away, if just for a moment.  It isn't long before Dean feels his exhaustion pulling at him and he falls asleep, remembering Sammy as a seven year old sticky with blue cotton candy instead of this broken man tacky with his own blood. 

He’s awake on the couch a moment later, the clunk of the door shutting followed by the sound of Ben excitedly telling his mom about soccer.  He sits up wiping sleep from his eyes, as exhausted as he’d been when he first laid down. 

Lisa walks in the room and gives him a smile.  “How’d it go, honey?”

Dean considers for a moment.  Thinks of roller coasters and carnies and bribes.  He gives her a smile, the first genuine one in a very long time.  “Better than I could have hoped.”  And then he’s on his feet pulling her into a soft kiss, feeling her shock turn to tenderness as she leans into his touch.  He pulls away and gives her grin.  “I know how I can help now.”

It doesn't matter that he's talking about how he soothes the Sam in his dreams.  Lisa doesn't know that and beams up at him, happy he seems to finally be moving on from Sam.

That night he dreams of roller coasters and Sammy's laugh and the taste of blue Slurpie.  

 


	5. The Best of Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam relives the only day he and Dean ever spent in an amusement park as children.

The last thing Sam remembers is falling asleep, the phantom heat of Dean behind him.  He likes to imagine his brother, likes to imagine he's there with him in Hell, soothing him after Lucifer's done with him for the day.  He's done it the last three hundred and sixty four nights and he knows it's the only thing that's kept him going.   

“Wakey, wakey, Sam.  Don’t wanna miss out on your special day.” 

Sam can swear Lucifer speaks directly into his ear, feels his cold breath even, but when he opens his eyes he’s not in the motel room and he doesn’t feel broken and bruised.  He's wearing the same clothes he'd been wearing when he'd entered the Cage, but they're new, clean for the first time in a year.  Free from the brown crusts of blood Sam long ago stopped trying to wash out in the bathroom sink.   

It’s hot, practically sweltering in the humid air and he’s squinting under the too bright sun.  He hears screams in the distance and he instinctively turns toward the sound bracing for a fight.  Instead, he sees towering roller coasters and a wood sign declaring “Frontier City” in obnoxious purple and orange.  It’s the story his imaginary Dean had told him as he’d fallen asleep.  Except this is better because he can smell the fried food, feeling the sun beating at his neck and for the first time in a long he feels like he's seeing the world in color.  Sweat’s pooling in the small of his back and at the ticket booth he sees a young John Winchester holding up an FBI badge up to the window as he winks at the flustered looking woman running the booth. 

“I bet Dad can get us in for free Sammy,” Dean’s voice comes from next to him and when Sam looks over there’s his big brother, twelve years old, freckled and blond with the summer sun.  His brother grins over at him.  “Wouldn’t that be _awesome_?”

Dean looks like he’s about to jump out of his skin and Sam can’t hold back the grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Do you really think he can get us in, Dean?”  He feels the excitement too and he’s staring wide eyed at the bright metal roller coasters towering above them. 

“Don’t you worry, Sammich,” Dean throws an arm over him shoulder and pulls him close with a shake.  “We’ve got the best dad in the whole world.  He’ll get us in.” 

It’s a couple minutes before John calls them over and they sprint under the wooden sign framed by tall oaks.  The woman working the booth smiles down at them.

“Aren’t y’all boys lucky to have such a sweetheart of a daddy,” she’s giving John the side-eye and in retrospect Sam knows his dad flirted for the two wristbands the woman passes under the window.  John takes them with a wink and if Sam's not mistaken he pockets a phone number before turning to the boys.  His father crouches down, peeling the backing off of the wristband.  He fastens it securely around Sam’s wrist, his warm hands brushing Sam’s.  Sam feels a wave of grief tinge the memory; it’s been such a very long time since he’s felt or spoken to his father.

“I’ve got some work to do here, boys.  You and Dean go have some fun and stay out of trouble.  Can you do that for me, Sammy?”  Sam nods enthusiastically and his father’s eyes crinkle.  He understands that smile, his father’s happy he can give his boy’s something normal for once, something fun. 

He stands, turning to Dean.  He fastens the second wristband around Dean’s wrist and then pulls his wallet out of his back pocket.  Sam sees the way Dean’s eyes widen when his father hands him two twenty dollar bills.  Dean’s about to protest, but John shakes his head at him.

“Buy you and Sam some lunch and a souvenir, okay.  I’ll meet you at the gate at closing, soldier.”  Dean nods, staring at the cash a moment before he stows it away in his own pocket.  John’s turning away and he stops, looking over his shoulder.  “Oh, and Dean.  What’s your job?”

“Watch out for Sammy.”  Young Dean answers with a grave nod and Sam hopes desperately that his Dean doesn’t blame himself for losing Sam.  He hopes that Dean found a different job along the way, something other than taking care of Sam.   

John smiles at them both.  “Have fun boys.”  Then he’s heading off towards the Haunted House that’s supposedly plagued by very real vengeful spirits. 

Dean turns toward his little brother then, his eye shining.  “Come on, Sammy.  I bet we can ride all of the rides by closing time.”  He grabs his hand then and they bolt through the turnstiles, only stopping a moment for an amused elderly woman to check their bracelets. 

“Welcome to Frontier City, boys,” she chuckles as Dean drags them into the park.  His big brother whoops in delight at the storefronts painted to look like the old frontier.  His brother glances around a moment before he finds a massive laminated map, shoving his way past a disgruntled mom to get a better view.  He scans it for a moment before his eyes light up.  He’s spouting a strategy, how they can get to all the rides before they have to meet up with their dad but Sam isn’t listening.  He’s watching the fervor with which Dean’s speaking and Sam remembers this as the first and only time they went to an amusement park as kids.  They weren’t exactly the kids that went to Disney World every summer and this tiny amusement park off an Oklahoma highway was as close as they'd ever get to something so _normal_.

“Sound good, Sam?”  Dean’s flushed and breathless.  Sam hasn't heard a word but he smiles at his brother.

“It sounds great, Dean.” 

They’re off then and as the day goes on they work their way through every ride.  Dean has to sneak Sam through some lines where he's not quite tall enough, but most of the attendants turn a blind eye to the two boys bouncing their way through the lines.

Some of them they ride more than once, Dean insisting on insisting on the Wildcat three different times before Sam's pretty sure he has whip lash.  Sam gets his revenge by insisting on the tilt a whirl over and over until Dean’s green and suggests they find a new ride.  They even find a ride that's a moving shooting gallery, shoving at each other as they wind their way through a fake mine and click away at the plastic pistols with painfully inaccurate sensors.  Dean even perches himself next to Sam on one of the roller coasters for little kids, screaming shrilly at every tiny bump to make Sam laugh.  No one says anything to them, the workers mostly just smiling at the scrappy looking boys having their first day of fun in a very long time. 

They finally stop for a break when the park’s mostly empty and Dean can't keep him eyes off a stand that boast "Pie on a Stick".  They find split a piece of Pie on a Stick and Sam's pretty sure half of the filling made it's way onto his shirt.  Sam insists on cotton candy and Dean buys a Slurpie from the same stand.  They perch on a curb afterward, munching contentedly as the sun drifts lower and lower in the sky.  Sam tears away at a the massive blue cloud of cotton candy while Dean slurps contemplatively at his cobalt mess of ice and syrup.  He’s reading a portable map he snagged from one of the kiosks, murmuring under his breath occasionally.

Finally, he takes a final  obnoxious slurp from his oversized cup and turns to Sam, lips stained unnaturally blue.

Sam starts to giggle before he can speak and Dean frowns at him.

“What’s so funny, Sammich?”

“Your lips are blue, Dean.  Like Smurf blue.”  He can't stop laughing, his brother looks so ridiculous and _young_.   It’s only a second before Dean starts laughing too. 

“Yours are too, stupid.  You just ate a pound of cotton candy.” 

"Nuh uh!"

"Come on, Sammy when have I ever lied to you?"  Sam rubs at his lips, his fingers coming away a sticky blue and Dean smirks.  "The answer you're looking for is _never_."  

They look at each other's blue stained mouths and start laughing again.  It goes on that way for a while; every time they stop they start again the second they look at each other.

Finally, they settle down and Dean's wiping mirthful tears from under his eyes.

“Okay, Sam.  We’ve got one last roller coaster to go.”  He holds up the map and points to the biggest attraction on it.  “The Silver Bullet, man.” 

They wander through the park until they finally reach the the ride, towering over them as they stand in its shadow.  The line's only a couple of people long, family’s started their worn out kids home hours ago. 

The boys dart under the awning, ducking under the bars that separate the lines in their eagerness to ride the best and biggest ride. 

They reach the front and are greeted by a disgruntled looking teenager, his face buried in a Game Boy and Sam can just barely make out the reflection of Tetris' slow moving blocks in his glasses.  The kid gives Sam a disdainful glance and then looks at Dean, not bothering to pause his game.

“Your kid brother's not tall enough to ride.”  He turns his attention back to the system in his hands. 

Sam can practically feel the anger radiating off Dean.  “What do you mean, he’s not tall enough?  He rode all the other rides.”  The pimply teenager huffs and pauses the game, setting it down so he can gesture to the “You must be this tall…” sign. 

“It says 48 inches.  He’s 47 at the most, kid.”  He’s picking up the Game Boy again, intent on ignoring Sam and Dean.

“Go wait over there, Sam,” Dean gestures to where the lines supposed to start and Sam scurries away.  He can hear the barely suppressed rage and he wants to be at a safe distance when the asshole kid gets it. 

From all the way out front, Sam can see Dean take a twenty out of his pocket and slide it across the podium.  The kid sneers at Dean, about to push the money back when Dean seizes his wrist and growls a threat at the older boy.  Obviously the kid believes Dean, because he turns white and gulps.  Dean asks him a question and the kid gives him a stiff nod, pocketing the cash.

“Come on, Sammy.  Let’s go!”  Sam runs toward Dean and it occurs to him that that money was supposed to buy Dean’s souvenir.  That Dean sacrificed the last of his money as a bribe for some shithead kid so Sam could ride a roller coaster.  It's not the first time Dean has sacrified something for Sam and it certainly won't be that last.  But before he can think about it too much the teenager ushers them through the gate.

Miraculously the first car sits empty and Dean’s running toward it, dragging Sam in his wake. 

They’re all strapped in before Sam can register how high the ride really goes and he feels the same lurch of fear he’d felt as a seven year old. 

“Dean?” he squeaks, but the ride jolts at the same time and the ride's slowly climbing.  His hand shoots out to grip his big brother’s.  There’s a breeze this high, breaking through July's sticky humidity.  He can see the tall loops and spires of the other attractions poking out of the vibrant green foliage, softly illuminated by the pink light of the setting sun.  They’re suspended in the air as the car clunks it's way up the tracks and Sam’s terrified of the ground so far below them. 

“Don’t worry Sammy.  It’s just a ride.”  Dean’s voice is calm, soothing and Sam turns to look at him.  His big brother's smile is tender, reassuring.  “I’m right here.”

They’re approaching the crest of the hill and Sam grips his brother’s hand tighter, his knuckles turning white.

“Don’t let go,” Sam whispers, staring into the jade of his brother’s eyes.  Dean’s smile softens.

“Never, Sammy.  I’ll never let go.”  Sam believes him.  Believes him with all his heart. 

Then the car begins its descent and Dean whoops, laughing joyously as the wind whips through their hair.  At first Sam sits frozen, terrified as his stomach drops.  After a moment of listening to Dean and feeling the reassuring warmth of his hand he feels himself relax. 

They’re upside down a moment as they go through the first loop and Sam loves this.  Loves the rush and he starts laughing, turning to look at Dean who’s yelling at every dip and turn.  His brother looks perfect in that moment.  Blond tousled hair, grass-green shining eyes, and childish features peppered with freckles this is his brother still years away from looking like the man Dean would become.  This moment stuck with Sam because it was one of the only times he and Dean were children together.  Dean gave up the role of caring for Sam and instead took up the role of his brother.

When the ride’s done they look at each other, grinning ear to ear.  When the the restraints pop and the speakers tell them they can unfasten their seat belts they stand slowly, feeling unsure on their feet for a moment.  As they exit and one of the kiosks that sells photos taken mid ride catches his older brother's eye. 

“Come on, Sammy.  I wanna see how much you look like a girl.” 

They walk up and it only takes a moment before they find their photo.  They’re both silent for a moment because it doesn’t look like the rest of the pictures of shrieking people. 

In the photo they’re illuminated by the light of the sunset and Dean’s laughing uproariously.  Sam doesn’t have the terrified expression Dean had teased him about; instead, the picture snapped at the exact moment he’d turned to Dean and he sees the adoration in his face as he watches his older brother.

Sam walks up to the woman running the booth and points to the photo.  “How much for that one?"

She glances at him, smiling down at the little boy.  “Fifteen bucks hon”. 

Sam turns to Dean who’d come up silently behind him.  “How much money do we have left, Dean?”  His older brother frowns and pulls two crinkled fives out of his pocket.  Sam wants this, and no other souvenir so he can see Dean like this always, remember this day forever. 

“It’s okay, Sam.  I’m sure we can find something else in the gift shop,” Dean looks mortified that he can’t pay for the one thing his little brother wants, but he used the rest of their cash on food and bribing the ride attendant.  Sam nods, not quite meeting his brother’s gaze, pushing down on the disappointment in his chest.

He looks up at the woman working the booth who’s looking down at them with a sad, almost pitying expression.  “Thanks anyway, ma’am,” Sam says quietly and they both turn to walk back to the entrance of the park. 

There’s a pause.  “Wait.” 

They both turn around and the woman is scrambling out of the booth and running towards them.  They glance at each other confused as she reaches them, panting a little. 

She crouches down to Sam’s level and smiles at him.  She holds up the photo Sam had been admiring and delicately places it in his hands. 

“We all deserve to remember the good days.  Especially the ones we have with the people we love the most.” 

Dean speaks up, “But, ma’am we- we can’t afford to pay for that.”  She looks at him and stands up, waving away his question. 

“Don’t worry about it, kid.  Those photos get lost all the time.”  She winks at him and turns back towards her booth.  She stops and then turns back.  “Just promise me one thing, kid.”

Dean nods gravely.  “Anything, ma’am.” 

“Never stop loving your brother like you do now.  These days are easy, the best of times.  It's gonna get a whole lot harder and you're gonna need what you have between the two of you.”  The look on her face is tender and Sam can tell that she means it.

Dean snorts.  “I’ve loved him since the day he was born, ma'am.  That’s never gonna change.” 

Sam could swear her eyes gloss over with tears as she gives them a nod.  “That’s what I like to hear.” 

They watch her walk away for a moment before someone announces over the intercom that the park will be closing in five minutes. 

Dean clears his throat.  “Come on, Sam.  We’ve got to meet Dad.” 

They head back to the entrance slowly, silently considering the random act of kindness the woman had just done for them. 

It’s only a few minutes before they reach a giant sign that announces “Come again soon, y’all” with their father standing directly underneath it.  He smiles at them when he sees them approach.

“Hey boys,” he slaps Dean on the back as they reach him and they head silently towards the parking lot where they left Baby.  They’re all quiet until they reach the car and Sam and Dean clamber into the backseat.  Sam rests him head on Dean’s shoulder, the photograph cradled in his lap. 

“How was your day, kids?”  Their dad asks as the ignition turns over and he navigates out of the parking lot. 

Sam hear the smile in Dean's voice when he answers. 

“The best.  The absolute best.” 

Dad smiles at them in the rearview mirror and pops Zeppelin II into the tape recorder as they hit the highway. 

Sam’s exhausted, drifting off as the first strains of “Ramble On” drift over the speakers. 

As his eyelids droop shut he glances at the picture in his lap, remembering how he’d saved it.  How he’d kept it with him up until the day he got to Stanford and how, when he’d been unpacking his bags in his dorm room he’d realized he’d left it behind somewhere.  He remembers how stricken he’d felt at the time, how he’d looked for days for the worn photograph.  He’d never found it though and eventually he just forgot about it. 

“Got no time for spreading roots, the time has come to be gone...” Robert Plant sings over the radio and as dusk fades to black Sammy falls asleep breathing in the scent of his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amusement park in this chapter is based off of the real Frontier City, a small park located directly outside of Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.  
> Fun fact, the Haunted House attraction in this particular park is rumored to actually be haunted.


	6. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Make him a list of everyone he's loved.  
> Sam sees a list of lives he's destroyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: this chapter contains a trigger warning for graphic depictions of torture and implied rape. 
> 
> If you have been personally impacted by sexual assault please contact:  
> The National Rape Hotline at 1-800-656-HOPE or visit ohl.rainn.org for 24/7 support
> 
> P.S. I'm legitimately sorry for this chapter. I promise better times are coming for the boys!

Sam tries to find ways to mark the passage of time as pain and fear start to blur the days.

It’s been years now and he only keeps track by the memories, the good days.  Twenty-three to date and he suspects it’s only a matter of time before he loses track of time entirely.  It becomes harder with each day, harder to remember the outside world as he spends countless hours locked in that motel room with Satan and bad classic rock. 

Sometimes he gets a glance of life before the cage.  Lucifer likes to take him through the memories Sam’s tried his best to forget.  Reminds him of the outside world by putting a gun in his hand and making him shoot Madison in the heart again.  Reminds him of the long night spent digging Dean's grave by placing a shovel in his hands a instructing him to dig.  Burning his father’s corpse, standing over Dean’s hospital bed, leaving Ellen to die with her daughter.  It's the punctuation that breaks up the endless days of torture.

Sam thinks eventually it will stop hurting so much.

It doesn’t, of course.  Every time a particular brand of torture loses its touch, Lucifer introduces a new one.  Around the same time the belt became old news, Sam had woken up to find the angel holding a carton of Marlboro's and a Zippo with a wicked grin.

That night he hadn’t dared moved for the agonizing constellation of perfectly round burns dotting his back.  As time went by he’d simply made a game of the perfectly spherical scars, counting the dots littering his body until they started to join together and he couldn't distinguish individual scars anymore.  When Lucifer ran out of room for the burns, he started showing up with a toolbox in tow.  They spent years working their way through the box and eventually Sam learned the best way to pull nails out of his hands and feet, the best position to lie in when the sledgehammer left his femur in pieces.

Each tool came with a new association.  Pliers left him clutching bloody fingers to his palms, the pads of his fingers raw and his fingernails littered around the room.  The hammer beckoned in long days when his kneecaps consisted of nothing more than pulverized calcium under the swollen mess of his skin.  The box of nails meant he'd spend the night with his palms nailed to the wall, trapped until Lucifer came to collect him in the morning. 

He’ll take any of those over the days when Lucifer quietly instructs him to undress and binds his hands in front of him.  He can deal with the shattered bones, the impossible blood loss.  He never grows accustomed to the ice cold caresses and his body's treacherous reaction to them. 

He calls out to Dean most nights, prays to his big brother more than he ever has to any angel.  Some nights, the lucky nights, he dreams that his brother comes to him.  He pretends that his brother wipes away his blood, that he whispers stories in his ear and curls his body protectively around Sam’s broken one.  He recognizes the fantasy, the wishful thinking.  In his heart of hearts, he knows his brother wouldn’t want to touch the man he’s become, scarred and irreparably broken.    

Nevertheless, Sam needs to think his brother would still want to comfort him and so he indulges in the stories and touches of his imaginary brother.  He listens night after night to the Dean's best stories and he’s almost surprised how many good days went unnoticed amongst the bad ones. 

He passes his endless days, living for the past.  

* * *

He wakes up from good day twenty four, a night spent trick or treating in a robot costume made out of magic markers and cardboard boxes.  He thinks about the his brother dragging him through neighborhoods swarming with kids, a ten-year old dressed as a cowboy and determined to give his little brother a good Halloween. 

Asia’s playing over the alarm speakers and he doesn’t open his eyes quite yet, smiling as he remembers pouring candy out on the motel floor and sorting it into piles so he and Dean could barter for the good stuff. 

“Come on, Sammy.  I don’t have all the time in the world.” 

Sam wants to ignore Lucifer but he’s tried that once or twice and it never ended well.  Instead, he sits up and looks over at the angel who's reclined on the queen next to him.  He fails to suppress the dread in his stomach when he sees the wicked sharp switchblade the other man's twirling between his fingers.  Lucifer snickers at his joke, “Well, you know I do have all the time in the world, but what can I say? I’m an impatient man.”

“Not much of a man at all,” Sam mutters, unable to suppress the anger fluttering in his chest.

Lucifer smiles sweetly at him, pressing a hand over his heart.  “Aww, Sam.  You’re such a flirt.”  Sam grimaces at him, too tired for a snappy reply and he wishes he could go back to bed, have a moment to remember Halloween 1989. 

“Up and at ‘em, Sam.  I’ve got something new for us to do today.”  He sighs heavily as he slides out of bed, ready for the new brand of torture Satan’s dreamed up for today.  After the years spent with the toolbox the switchblade doesn't seem too intimidating.  “Take off your shirt and jeans.” 

Lucifer rises from his spot on the other queen bed.  Sam’s stomach drops.  He’d hoped he would have a few days of respite before he had to deal with this particular brand of torture.  He pulls off his shirt, then his jeans mechanically.  He tries to avoid looking at his body, a net of scar tissue and barely healed wounds.  He hooks his fingers in the waistband of his boxers, ready to get this over with. 

“Uh huh, Sam.”  His head shoots up in surprise and Lucifer’s shaking his head at him.  “I’m flattered, but I have something better.” 

Sam doesn’t understand what he means but relief overwhelms his so completely he doesn’t consider what the angel could possibly be referring to. 

“Lay down on the floor,” Lucifer looks practically gleeful, like a kid at Christmas.  Sam does as he’s told, laying down on his belly.  “I feel like you so rarely get to participate, Sam and well that’s just not fair.  So I thought of something we could do together.”

Dread begins to cloud his earlier relief and there’s something different in Lucifer’s demeanor.  Something more menacing that sparks more fear in Sam’s stomach than the toolbox ever did. 

He suppresses a flinch when Lucifer straddles his lower back and he’s glad for the clothing separating them.  It’s been a long time since Sam’s been afforded the luxury of clothing.

“I think we’re going to hold confession today, Sam,” Lucifer strokes a cold hand over the scarred flesh of his back and Sam’s breath catches in his throat. 

“You like to play priest, Lucy?” Sam tries to infuse bravado into his voice but he can’t quite prevent the fear from bleeding through into his voice.  He hadn't expected something so _personal_ and he almost prefers the thought of crushed kneecaps.  Lucifer laughs heartily at the tremble in his voice. 

“Not quite, Sammy,” he chuckles.  “No, I just thought maybe we should reflect on what brought you here.  Why you’re paying penance with me.”  Sam doesn’t want to participate in this twisted religion and he feels bile rising in his throat. 

“I’m not paying penance.  I’m here because it was the only way to stop you.” 

They both know that Sam doesn’t believe the words though.  They know he takes the punishment because he hates himself enough to believe he deserves every blow, every night spent bloody on a motel floor. 

“Now, now Sam.  Everyone in hell is doing penance for something.  Now tell me.  What did you ever do to deserve this?” 

Sam’s silent and he can’t say the words that haunt him, can’t admit the truth to the monster who wants to do him harm. 

“Come on, Sam.  Answer the question or no more trick or treating for you.”

He can’t give up the good days, the memories and when he answers Lucifer doesn’t catch it at first.

“What was that, Sammy?”  His tormentor leans closer and he can feel the icy breath brushing against the back of his neck.  Sam swallows painfully and closes his eyes.

“I destroyed everyone I ever loved.” 

The room’s silent for a long moment and then Lucifer starts to laugh, a chuckle that morphs into a wave of uproarious laughter. 

“Oh god, Sam,” he says when he’s finished.  “That’s so much better than I’d ever hoped.” 

Sam doesn’t reply, he knows he’ll be talking more than enough in the coming hours.  Lucifer wants to hold confession and Sam Winchester’s sins are legion.     

“Okay then.  When was the first time you hurt the people you love?”  The Devil’s found a new game and his vessel can hear the excitement in his voice.  This is a pain the shattered bones can’t touch.

Sam doesn’t have to think about it.  “My mom.”  He says it quietly, shutting his eyes as he thinks about.  How he killed his mother before he could even walk. 

“Oh dear.  Six months old and already on your way to a monster,” Lucifer shifts, leaning over and Sam can feel the chill of his breath frosting over his back.  “No wonder you ended up here.”  He imagines Satan shaking his head disapprovingly.  “What did you do specifically, Sam?”

Sam chokes on the words.  “I killed her.  I killed my mother.”

Then there’s a blade pressing into his back and Sam bucks up, shocked at the sudden pain.  He wants to escape this confessional, wants to beg for nails and belts and cigarettes.  Lucifer slams him into the ground, pinning him there with a single hand. 

“Don’t move, Sammy.  You want this to be legible when I’m done.”  Sam stops his squirming and the other man immediately resumes his carving.  He doesn’t move this time, simply accepts the patterns etched into the keloid scarring of his back. 

“Mary Winchester,” he says triumphantly when he’s finished, pulling the blade away from the skin.  “Who’s next?  Who else did you hurt?” 

Sam can’t comprehend what the carvings in his back and this so called confession have in common, but he answers anyway, knows he can’t save himself from this anymore than he could have from the past twenty four years of torture. 

“My dad.”

“And what did you do to your daddy, Sam?”

Guilt tears through his chest as he answers.  “I killed his wife and eventually my demon blood killed him.  He died because the demons wanted me.”

Lucifer starts up with the knife again and after a  couple minute states, “John Winchester. Who’s next?”

“Jess.”

“And what about your pretty blond love?”

“She burned because I loved her.  She'd still be alive if she'd never met me.” 

A moment of silence and searing pain as Satan tattoos his blade into Sam’s skin.  “Jessica Moore.”  And Sam knows what the patterns are. 

Satan is carving the names of every person he’s ever killed into his back and he gives the next name without prompting. 

“Jim Murphy.  The demons killed him to get to me.” 

It goes on that way for hours and as time goes on he decides he prefers the blade to the way the names roll off his tongue.  Jo and Ellen Harvelle died fighting his battle.  Bobby Singer's neck snapped in the moments before Sam’d tumbled into the pit.  Even Castiel, blown to pieces because he'd failed to conquer Lucifer the first time.  Finally there’s only one name left and Sam says it in a reverent whisper.

“Dean Winchester.”  Lucifer takes his time and when Sam doesn’t immediately give him another prompt, he speaks up.

“Who else, Sam?”  He’s waiting for another name so Sam gives him the one that matters the most.

“Dean Winchester.”  He says and they’re both quiet.

“We’ve already got that one kiddo.  Anyone else I need to add?” Lucifer asks a smirk in his voice. 

Sam’s quiet a moment.

“Dean Winchester.”  In his mind’s eye he can see his brother, disavowing him.  Every moment his big brother told him how unclean he was, how unhuman. 

Lucifer falls silent for a moment.

"And what did you do to your big brother, Sammy?"

"I killed his mother."  

Sam feels the knife trace into the small of his back again. 

When he’s finished Lucifer speaks again.  “Are you sure you haven’t forgotten someone?  Who have you hurt the most?” 

Sam feels shame roiling in his belly. 

“Dean Winchester.” 

"What did you do to your beloved brother, Sam?"

"I killed his father."

And every time Lucifer asks him the question Sam gives him the same name, a different reason.

Always Dean, always his brother because he fucked up his brother’s life from the moment he was born and now he wants it tattooed into his skin to remind him of how he’s destroyed the life of the only person that’s ever really mattered to him.

He loses count of the number of times his brother’s name carves its way into his flesh.  Finally, Lucifer stands up. 

“Well, this was fun Sammy but I’ve got to tell you, I’m beat.”  He walks away, his footsteps muffled by the carpet.  The light flickers off, leaving Sam in darkness.  “Don’t worry though, we want to make sure you can read the list with all those scars of yours.  We’ll pick up where we left off tomorrow.”  The door shuts behind him and Sam doesn’t move. 

He doesn’t cry that night and when Dean visits him in his dreams he doesn’t react.  He doesn’t deserve the comfort of his brother’s touch.

For the first time he’s glad he’s here in the Cage. 

Everyone in hell does penance and he’s no exception.                 


	7. Penance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean continues to visit Sam in his dreams each night.  
> As Sam deteriorates so does Dean.

Dean tries to find ways to mark to the passage of time as grief dictates his days and nights.

Every day he does his best to be present for Lisa and Ben, his new family.  

It doesn't matter that he's only living his life for a promise made to a dead man.  

He’d promised Sam that he’d live the apple pie life and more than anything he wants to live out his brother's dying wish.  So that’s how he spends his days.  Trying to separate himself from the world that belonged to him and Sam, a world of darkness and monsters that they stood united against. 

He doesn't clean blood from his boots at the end of the days, instead emptying them of the saw dust that clings to his socks.  He uses salt to season scrambled eggs every morning, rather the packing it into empty shotgun shells each night.  He reads the paper for the sports section and stops himself from searching for a new hunt.    

Try as he might, he's not truly invested and he finds himself going through the motions.  He spends exhausted days looking forward to nights plagued by nightmares that leave him even wearier in the morning.

He knows the nightmares aren't healthy, they mean that for all his effort to create a new life he's living in the past.

His days act as unwanted  distractions from the nightmares he craves.

Nightmares featuring a tortured Sam and it hurts.  It hurts like hell, seeing that broken imagination of his little brother but  he prefers the nights kept watch over his shattered dream of Sam to the endless days absent of hazel eyes and dimpled smiles.

He knows this shadow of a real life hadn't been what Sam wanted for him.  But when he'd made the promise he hadn't anticipated the reality of life without his brother and he only survives for rare dreams of amusement parks and fireworks. 

In reality he spends most nights in dreams devoted to tending to his broken brother, living in the shadows of a blood stained motel room.  He sits by his brother’s side and tells him stories, tells him about stupid things they did as kids, moments plucked from their lives before angels and demons ruled their very existence.  He talks for hours and Sam never replies, never directly acknowledges his brother but Dean has to believe his voice, his touch soothes his dreamlike approximation of Sam. 

As time goes on the dreams, the nightmares change.  Different injuries start cropping up across his baby brother’s skin.  Welts and lash marks give way to different, sometimes uglier punishments.  With each passing day he becomes better at recognizing new injuries and those nights Sam sobs harder and Dean’s touch barely reaches him through the pain. 

After the belt buckle lashes, constellations of perfectly round burns appear, the evidence of cigarettes tattooing his brother’s skin.  Then there's the entire month where Dean finds nails pinning his brother's hands to the wall and his knees crushed to a pulp.  The next morning it takes everything in Dean to pick up the hammer at work, sick with the thought of broken bones and tortured stigmata.  He can’t do anything to stop it, can’t explain why his recurring dream evolves as time goes on so he sits at Sam's side and tries to calm him with stories of robot costumes and camping trips. 

One night Dean dreams of a long ago Halloween and he can almost believe the dreams will get better.  Until he comes back one night and Sam’s silent, lying face first on the carpet with fresh blood blanketing his skin.  Over time, his back’s healed into an ugly mesh of white and pink scar tissue but tonight there’s blood obscuring all evidence of past injury.  It’s a wet expanse of scarlet glistening in the dim moonlight streaming through the blinds and Dean feels sick as he approaches the prone form of his brother’s body. 

“Sammy?” 

His brother doesn’t reply.  Dean’s used to one-sided conversations, but Sam’s so still, so silent that Dean fears against all odds he’s dead.  He surges forward dropping to his knees and presses two fingers to the pulse point in his baby brother's neck.  He sighs in relief when he makes out the weak thump, thump of his brother’s heart.  “Oh god, Sammy," he breathes.  "What did they do to you this time?”  He pulls off his shirt in a practiced motion and balls it in his hands, dabbing at the blood as fast as he can without causing even more injury.  It’s a long time spent blotting away the waves of red and Dean’s almost given up when he reaches skin and realizes the injuries were inflicted with a knife.  The cuts fall in raised patterns and Dean feels nauseated, wondering if Lucifer carves pictures into his brother’s skin like some macabre sketchbook. 

It’s worse when he realizes they’re letters and they spell out names.  A long list of names that take up almost the entire expanse of his back.  Dean reads them slowly, horror choking his lungs as it dawns on him what the names are.  He mouths them silently, “Mary Winchester, John Winchester, Jessica Moore, Jim Murphy, Castiel, Bobby Singer, Jo Harvelle, Ellen Harvelle…” there’s a few there that he doesn’t immediately recognize but he freezes at the last name, carved deeper than the rest. 

“Dean Winchester.”  He reads and nausea twists in his belly.

It’s a list that reads like a cemetery roster, all the death in their lives carved into abused flesh.  But this theme runs deeper than death and Dean wants more than anything to erase the names from his brother's skin.

He recognizes the new injuries for what they are; every death Sam believes himself responsible for.  Dean knows guilt consumed his brother in life, often for events he had no control over.  Knowing his brother felt guilty is different than finding overwhelming regret carved fresh in the musculature of his back, every accusation seeping a steady current of blood.

Dean can picture Lucifer going about the process.  Laughing as he carves each new name into Sam’s flesh and he knows his brother well enough to know he never fought against it.  His little brother sees this torture as penance for the deaths he left in his wake throughout his entire life.  Dean shifts his weight back onto his heels, pressing his palms to  his eye sockets as he drops the blood stained material of his shirt to floor.

He knows he can’t fix this with a tender touch and a story.  Knows that the guilt carved into Sam goes so much deeper than his skin.  He’s silent, the horror burning bile in his throat. 

“Sammy, you didn’t do this.  You’re not responsible for all the death in our lives,” Dean’s quiet and he doesn’t know how he can fix this, doesn’t know how he heal the shattered man with grief marked into his skin.  “Those black-eyed sons of bitches killed our family.  That’s not on you, brother.” 

His brother doesn’t reply, still and silent and Dean wants to scream. 

“Sammy, please you’ve got to listen to me.  You’ve got to let me know that you don’t believe the lies that sick fucker is feeding you.” 

No answer and Dean feels panic building in his chest.  His brother's rotting in the cage and he can't even soothe the broken Sam in his dreams.  He tries again, his voice tender. 

“All those people, Sam?  They loved you.  They loved you and they died for you because they wanted to.  You never asked them for a thing.  Hell, dad’s on me, man.” 

He may as well be speaking to a brick wall. 

“Fine, Sam.  Don't answer me," he sighs, frustrated.  "Shit, I'm not even sure you can but I want you to know this.  I’m not leaving you.  I'm not going to leave you here to mope because you think those deaths on your back are somehow your fault."

And he doesn’t. 

He comes back every night after that and each night the names are deeper.  Sam’s more withdrawn into himself, shying away from Dean’s touch.  He doesn’t sob into the night anymore, doesn’t call out to Dean.  He’s silent and unmoving, buried deep in the dark head space that wants him to believe he breaks everything he touches.  

The silent nights with Sam take their toll and the grief pervades more thoroughly into his days than ever before.  He feels as if he's lost the only thing left of Sam and he can't cope with it.  He drinks more, draws away from Lisa, starts spending nights sifting through lore books again.  Dean needs Sam and now he's lost his brother to a silent dreamworld where guilt eats the younger Winchester alive.

Neither of them are going to survive this and Dean doesn’t see a way out. 

Weeks have passed since he first found the roster of dead and he'd give anything to heal his brother.

He falls asleep and a moment later he stands in the shadowy doorway of the motel, listening for any noise from Sam.  Just like all the other nights, his brother doesn't call out to him and Dean approaches where he knows his brother will be. 

He lays on the floor, back turned towards Dean, silent and withdrawn as ever.

“Sammy?” 

Dean doesn't expect a reply.  That's why he's shocked when a quiet voice asks him a question. 

“Why do you keep coming back, Dean?”  He's floored by shock and he realizes that this dream Sam could hear him, see him, sense him the entire time. 

“Shit, Sam you could hear me this whole time?  Why the fuck didn’t you say anything?”  Sam shifts but doesn't answer and Dean crosses over to him, dropping to the floor on his knees.  “Goddamnit, man.  I’ve missed you so much.”  He reaches out a hand towards his little brother's shoulder, intent on feeling the solid warmth of his skin. 

Sam flinches away from his touch.

"Answer the question."

Dean thinks the answer should be obvious at this point.

"I come back because you're my brother, Sam."

"That's not a good reason.  You should stay as far away from me as you can."  There's venom in his brother's voice.  He wants Dean gone and Dean refuses to back away from the only thing he has left of Sam.

"And why is that?  Because Lucifer convinced you that you ruined my life?  You're smarter than that, man.”  He stiffens, the scarred names rippling across his back and Dean wonders exactly how many days this dream Sam has confessed a list of names to be carved into his flesh. 

“I destroy everything I touch.  I doomed you from the moment I was born.”  He says it quietly shame choking his voice. 

Dean freezes, realizing the conviction with which Sam believes the lies Satan feeds him each day.  “You really think I care about that.” 

Deafening silence reigns in the room and Sam slowly turns towards him.  In the shadows of the room Dean can just make out the sheen of tears on his brother's thin, bruised face.

“You don’t understand," he whispers slowly.  "I killed mom.  I ruined your whole life from the moment I was born, Dean.  Everyone, everything I touch I leave in ruin.  I’m death and demon's blood and nothing you say can change that.” 

Pain rushes through him at that and he doesn't know how to make his little brother believe him.

He sighs, “You didn’t ruin my life, Sam.  You were all the best parts of my life and now that you’re gone," he swallows, feeling tears sting his eyes, "nothing matters anymore."

Sam shakes his head furiously, frustration clouding his eyes as he sits up so he can press into Dean's space, “I am every single bad thing that ever happened to you, Dean.  Now that I’m gone you can live the life you always wanted.” 

Dean feels frustration build in his chest.  “God damn it, Sam.  You _were_ my life.  I never wanted to live without you.” 

Sam looks at him, shock and hurt in his eyes.  “Don’t say that me.  You don’t mean that.”

“But I do, Sam.  You don’t know what it’s like with you gone.”  Dean’s insistent and he reaches out to grab his brother’s shoulder.  “You’ve gotta know that you didn’t destroy my life.  All the best parts were because of you and they always will be.” 

Sam shakes his head, biting at his lip.  “I killed them, Dean.  Our family, our friends.  I deserve this."  His eyes flash darkly with his next words.  " I'm doing _penance_.  Just like every other person in hell.” 

Dean shoots forward and grips his brother’s face in his hands.  He flinches and Dean tries not to think about the fear in his brother’s in his eyes, the days spent training him to associate sudden movement with pain.  He holds him there and they lock gazes.  “You don’t deserve this, Sam.  No one does and I am so sorry that you ended up here.  But you’ve gotta believe me.  Mom, dad, the rest of them?  They loved you and they were happy to give up their lives.  Hell, I was happy to die for you and I’d do it again.  I’d do it again in a second if it meant you were out of this place, Sammy.”

Tears are forming in the corners of Sam’s eyes and his lip trembles. 

“Dean, you don’t know what it’s like.  Destroying everything you touch.”  Dean pulls him to his chest and he feels relief crash through him as Sam's arms wrap around him.  He tries to ignore the thick grid of scarring on the skin beneath his hands, instead concentrating on the solid heat of his brother. 

“I think I’ve got a good idea, Sammy.  I've ruined a lot of the good in our lives and that's something that's gonna stay with me til the day I die.”  He grips his brother tighter, tears streaming down his face.  "But you, Sam.  You made all that bad, all that pain worth it." 

They stay wrapped up in each other a long moment.

"I caused all that pain.  Every last moment of it."  His brother's voice is a whisper in his ear and there's bottomless shame in his unspoken apology.

Dean shakes his head and he wishes he could let his brother see through his eyes for just a single moment.  Let him see the light that Dean has always seen. 

"Can I tell you a story, Sam.  Like when we were kids and dad was gone?"  He has to hope that words can reach Sam.

Sam lets out a heavy sigh.  “You’re just a dream to me, Dean.  A story isn't going to hurt.”

Dean shakes his head, feeling his brother's hair brush his cheek, “I could say the same about you.  It doesn't mean I want to save you any less.” 

"You can't save me.  Not anymore, Dean."

There's a finality in Sam's voice and Dean feels panic shredding through his chest, unsure he'll ever be able to fix this.

"You don't really believe that.  Or else you wouldn't have bothered talking to me."  He knows he's right when his brother doesn't reply immediately.  

“I just-,” Sam pauses and inhales deeply, “I wanted to hear your voice.  I just wanted to say goodbye, before I sent you away.” 

“And when has that ever worked for us, Sammy?  Cause I've got a whole lot of evidence that says saying goodbye isn't the Winchester genes.”

Sam yanks away from him then, rage flickering in his eyes.  "Did it ever occur to you that that was the problem?  Huh, Dean?  If we could just let go, maybe this would've never happened."

"Maybe we just weren't built to let go.  Maybe it was supposed to be you and me, Sam and Dean, til the end and then everything went to shit.  They took you away from me, Sam, and if you think I'm just going to _let that go_ then you're not as smart as I thought you were."  Dean's shouting, still kneeling as he grips his brother's bare shoulders.  

They're both breathing heavily, chests heaving.  They watch each other for a long moment and Dean sees the moment Sam gives in to him.

"If I let you tell me a story, will you let me go.  For good, this time?"  Sam asks, resignation painting his voice.  

He nods, "If that's what you want."  He doesn't know if he can let go of the dreams, doesn't know if he can keep the promise to this final remnant of Sam.  

“I’ll tell you a story then.  One that you don’t know.  How about that, Sammy” 

He nods slowly in reply and they stare at each other, the inches separating them an impossible distance.  

The older mans takes a deep breath.  "Do you know the first moment I knew who I was, Sam?  The first moment I knew what I was living for?"

His brother shakes his head once, confusion clouding his eyes.   

"When mom brought you home from the hospital she set me down in the rocking chair and put you in my arms.  And I looked into your eyes and I just-," Dean scrubs a hand over his face, his words impossibly important in this moment, "I knew that you were mine and I was yours.  And I've never forgotten it, Sam.  Not for one single second."

He talks for hours.  Talks about the ultrasound he kept on his nightstand for months.  How it felt to hold Sam the first time.  The first time he'd looked up and said "De" with a beaming smile.  

He tells Sam the story of them.  The story of his life's purpose and how it felt when it was snuffed out.  

He tells the story of one person irrevocably torn in two.  


	8. Redemption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam lives out memories that aren't his own.  
> Sometimes the only way to see our value is through another's eyes.

Dean talks through the night, his soft words conveying countless memories in the night.  Sam listens breathlessly to the story of two brothers, his own story told through different eyes.

Eventually, exhaustion clouds Sam's thoughts and he can see light beginning to stream through the blinds when Dean stops talking

He seems to have finished and he sighs heavily.  

“From the moment I knew I was going to be a big brother, Sam.  I knew you were what I’d been waiting for.” 

There’s silence heavy in the air between them.  “Dean, I’m not-,”  he casts his gaze to floor, shame burning in his gut, “I’m not the person you think I am.”

“You are Sammy.  Just because you can’t see it doesn’t make it any less true.” 

They’re both so tired, so drained that when Dean silently pats the ground next to him, Sam scoots over to take the spot next to his brother.

He doesn't deserve his brother, the comfort he offers but Sam's a glutton and he can't resist the temptation. 

He rests his head on the solid warmth of his big brother’s shoulder.  Old Spice and soap fill his nose and for the first time in a long time the smell of gunpowder doesn’t cling to his brother’s skin.  The scent of violence doesn’t follow him in a cloud and it’s because he’s free from Sam, free from the danger his brother drags into their lives. 

The thought hardly matters though because exhaustion drags at Sam's feet, threatening to pull him under.

“Go to sleep, little brother.”  Sam’s drifting off and he feels a hand tenderly brushing through his hair.  "I just wish you could see it.  See how I see you."

His eyelids grow heavy and sleep overtakes him as he leans into the heat of his brother's side. 

Suddenly, he’s sitting in a cushy armchair that looks vaguely familiar.  It’s a normal living room, your average family home, the walls a soft beige and an old fashioned television set sitting directly across from someone's questionable choice of couch. 

“Come over here, Dean.  I need to talk to you about something very important.”  A woman’s voice floats from another room in the house and Sam feels his stomach drop as his mother, dressed in a long white nightgown walks into the room.  A pint sized Dean, only three or four follows her a moment later, chubby toddler body squeezed into dinosaur pajamas with milk spilled down the front.  

Sam's walked in just after breakfast time in the Winchester house and he aches for it.  Aches for the normalcy of a living room and family breakfast.   

Mary crosses the room, sitting down on the couch when she reaches it.  She picks up Dean a moment later and gently sits him in her lap.    

“What is it mommy?”  He’s staring up at her with wide saucer eyes, watching his mom with an expectant expression.  She smiles down at her son before she speaks.  

“Well Dean, what would you say if I told you were gonna be a big brother?”  Dean’s eyes grow impossibly wider in his tiny face, his mouth slowly breaking into the most brilliant smile Sam’s ever seen.

“Really, mommy?”  he says bouncing up and down a little in her lap.  An important question occurs to him and he stops moving.  “Where is he?”  He glances around, scrambling off her lap so he can peer over the edge of the couch.  When he doesn’t find an infant Sammy hidden under the couch, he looks suspiciously up at his mother.  “Where’d you hide him?”  Mary laughs, high and clear, as Dean gives her a suspicious pout.

“He’s not here yet, baby.  He’s still growing.”  Dean pulls himself up to her side and  Mary pulls him back into her lap. 

“Like the flowers,” he asks, confusion clouding his eyes.  “Is he in the backyard with the flowers?”  Amusement flickers in his mother's eyes and Sam fights a smile from his seat in the armchair.

“No, babies have to grow in their mommies, sweetie.  He’s growing in mommy’s belly until he’s big and strong.”  Dean looks at her in disbelief and shock, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“He’s in your belly?”  Mary nods and the little boy stares at her stomach for a long moment, distrust clinging to his expression.  “How long are you gonna keep him in there?”  He seems personally offended that his mother's keeping his brother all to herself and Sam laughs, catching a glimpse of the brother this little boy would grow into.  

“Five months, honey.”

His tiny lips fall into a pout, his expression growing more disgruntled by the second.  “But that’s forever, mom.  Can’t you grow him any faster?” 

Mary gives him a mock serious expression as she somberly shakes her head.  “I’m sorry, baby but he says he wants to make sure he’s big and strong for when he meets his big brother." 

His childish features look downcast and his gaze falls, staring at his mother's lap.  “I don’t mind if he’s small, mommy.  I’ll protect him until he’s big and strong and then we can play together.” 

Sam watches his mother's face grow impossibly tenderer and her voice is soft when she speaks again.

“I know you would, my beautiful boy.  But he likes it in here right now.  He’s warm and safe so he can grow.  Do you understand baby?”  Dean nods slowly, burying his face in his mother’s chest.  Mary presses a kiss to the top of her older son's head. 

“Do you wanna see him?” she whispers into the soft blond hair.

Dean’s face shoots up and he nods eagerly, his excitement completely erasing the disappointment there a moment earlier.  Mary leans forward and opens the drawer in the coffee table, searching until she finds a black and white photo.  She holds it up and Sam can make out the blurry black and white outline of an ultrasound.  

"That's your little brother, honey."

Dean looks amazed, awe lighting up his face. 

“What’s his name, mom?”

“Sam.  Your baby brother, Sam.”

Her son reaches out a chubby hand and traces the impossibly small features of his brother. 

He looks up at Mary.  “Can I keep it mom?”    

“Of course, baby.  We’ll put it on your nightstand, how about that?”  Sam's brother nods eagerly and sets down the picture, sliding off Mary’s lap so he can kneel on the couch next to her.  He points to his mom’s nightgown clad stomach.

“He’s really in there,” he seems to believe her when she nods this time.  He pauses a moment and then he surges forward, pressing a kiss to the swell just starting to show under the thin fabric. 

"Hiya, Sammy,” he whispers, “I'm your big brother, Dean.” 

Sam doesn't want to leave this moment, desperately want to watch his family before he'd shattered this normalcy around them.  But the scene shifts away from the mother and son sharing a private moment on the couch, leaving Sam in an entirely new memory.

He sits on the floor, a tarp crinkling beneath him and when he looks up gallons of paint dot the room.

A young Dean enters the room, sprinting past him carrying a paintbrush with a gleeful expression.  “Come on, mommy.  We’ve gotta get Sammy’s room ready, he’s coming home soon!” 

A faint chuckle drifts up from the staircase and Mary comes into view, her belly swollen under a paint splattered shirt. 

Dean’s running circles around the paint canister, waving his brush in the air.

“We’ve still got a month to go, baby,” she chuckles.  She takes Sam's breath away, beautiful even in baggy sweatpants and a shirt that he assumes belongs to his father. 

Dean shoots her an annoyed look.  “That’s almost here.  We've gotta hurry, mom.”  Mary nods at him mock seriousness.

 “I know, baby.  That’s why I need your help with the nursery to get it ready in time.” 

 The toddler returns her serious expression with a proud look in his eye.  “My baby brother’s going to have the best room ever.” 

“Well of course he is, his big brother’s helping out.”  Mary crouches down to his level and plants a kiss on his forehead. 

She stands and crosses over to the paint cans, prying them open with a screwdriver.  It only takes a moment and she and Dean are standing in the center of the room, brushes in hand. 

“Can I start, mommy?”  Dean looks excited and he bolts when his mom gives him a nod.  Sam understands why the floor had been so thoroughly covered now.  Dean paints the wall pale blue with  fervor in his eyes, biting on the tip of his tongue as he works.  Paint drips and splatters, more paint on ending up on Dean's skin than on the walls.  Mary follows in her son's wake, chuckling as she paints over the wild splotches the toddler leaves in streaks over the walls. 

The sun's setting outside when the room finally matches the color in the canisters.  Mother and son stand together as they admire their handiwork.   

“Do you think he’s gonna like it here mommy,” Dean asks quietly and Mary’s eyes soften as she crouches down to his level, placing gentle hand on her son’s cheek.

“Yeah, Dean.  I think he will.” 

The room fades away again and Sam’s left watching his four year old brother jump up and down, trying to get a glimpse through the entryway window.  He scrabbles fruitlessly at the blinds, trying to peek through, still a foot too short.  Sam smiles down at the tiny figure that will become his brother. 

It’s only a moment before Sam sees headlights flash through the blinds and Dean freezes.  He simply stares at the door, anxiously holding his breath.  A knock rings out a moment later and an elderly woman yells out, “Coming.” 

The woman reaches the door and when she pulls it open there’s an exhausted looking John and Mary, dark circles under their eyes and a tiny blue bundle in Mary's arms.  The woman scurries out the door a second later, but Sam can’t pull his eyes away from his brother who’s staring at the squirming blue blanket as it’s the most magnificent thing he’s ever seen. 

“Dean, buddy.  You should be in bed," John scolds, but his voice's gentle.  Sam feels unsteady for a moment.  He’d never met that soft man, with a smile in his eyes as he looked down at his son. 

“I wanted to see, Sammy dad.”  The tiny boy stands on tiptoes, trying to peak into his mom's arms.  His parents give each other a look, a private smile and then Mary speaks up.

“Do you wanna hold him Dean?  Just a little bit before we get you two big boys off to bed.” 

Dean beams at the suggestion.  “Can I really, mommy?” 

Sam sees the softness in his parent's eyes, in Mary's smile as she answers.  “Yeah, come on.  We can rock him to sleep."

She makes her way to the living room, Dean trailing in her wake.  John helps her settle into the rocking chair, then plucks Dean up and places him in his wife's lap. 

“Scoot in closer Dean,” Mary instructs and Dean ducks into the circle of her embrace.

She leans closer to her eldest's ear.  “Okay now hold your arms just like mine, baby.”  He tucks his arms in just like his mother’s and suddenly his arms are supporting Sam’s impossibly small frame, his mother's arms wrapped around his as extra support.

Dean stares down into the tiny pink face and two, wide hazel eyes stare up at him.  Baby Sam blinks up at his brother and there’s a tender awe in Dean’s face that speaks of experience far past his years on this earth. 

“Hi, Sammy,” he says in a reverent whisper, “I’m your big brother and I’ve been waiting for you for a long, long time.” 

The room fades again and Sam’s sitting on damp asphalt, the stars shining down on him as the smell of smoke fills his nostrils.  He knows what he’s going to see even as he turns his head.  He shifts his gaze and takes in the sight of the Winchester home in flames.  Dread pulls at his stomach as he scans for his father and Dean. He hears voices and stands, turning toward them.  His gaze freezes on the Impala, Dean perched on the trunk with a small bundle in his arms.  Behind him Sam can see John speaking to an EMT, an impossible grief already weighing his father's eyes. 

Sam walks closer to his brother and even in the dim light of the stars he can make out the quiet grief of his older brother.  There’s soft cries coming from the blanket in Dean’s arms and when the lights of a fire truck flash past Sam can see the silent, glistening tears staining his brother’s cheeks. 

“Shh, Sammy.  Don’t cry, I’ve got you.”  He whispers to the squirming bundle in his hands.  “Mommy’s with the angels now, she’ll protect us.  She always said the angels will protect us.”  There’s still soft cries coming from the squirming shape in the blanket and Dean’s voice cracks.  “Please, don’t cry Sammy. I'm not goin' anywhere.” 

Nothing will calm down the baby in his arms though and there's a desperate look clouding the little boy's eyes.  Then he freezes, an idea flashing across his face and he opens his mouth.  In an impossibly small voice he starts to sing, so quiet Sam has to lean in to make out the words.

“Hey Jude, don’t be afraid, take a sad song and make it better.”  His voice’s tearstained and it cracks every couple lines, but the squirming in Dean's arms slows and it isn’t long before Sam falls silent, lost to the world of dreams.  Sam watches as his brother bursts into real tears then, sobs tearing out of his chest.  “Big brother’s here, Sammy," he whispers.  "I’ve got you.  I’ve got you.” 

Sam wants to reach out to the shaking form of his brother, motherless and alone in the night as the light of flames flicker across his face.

The scene disappears before Sam can reach out to his shattered brother.

Instead he witnesses memory after memory, moments bleeding into one another as he watches the past play out in front of him. 

There’s a motel room and a chubby, diapered Sam takes his first uneasy steps in the direction of his big brother's outstretched arms.

Dean kneels in the middle of a grocery store aisle glancing around as he  desperately packs cans of ravioli into a beat up backup. 

A shadowy motel room next, the sound of sniffling coming from one of the beds.  “Come on, Sam it’s okay.  Those kids don’t know what they’re talking about, you’re not a freak.”  Dean’s voice pauses in the dark and there’s rustling and Sam can guess Dean's pulled him into his arms.  “You’ll never be a freak to me, Sammy.”

Finally, the memories stop plugging away at an impossible pace and Sam finds himself sitting in the dark.

He's in the Impala, parked in an unfamiliar parking lot.  Dean’s older than the rest of the memories, maybe twenty two and still impossibly young to Sam's eyes.  He sits in the driver’s seat, staring off at something in the distance.  Sam follow his gaze and feels his stomach drop. 

They’re parked in front of the bus station and he can just make out the sign on the bus Dean’s watching, _Bus 304 - Stanford, CA_.  The bus starts to pull away and when Sam turns his eyes back to his brother, silent tears stream down his face, his eyes shut tight.  Dean growls suddenly and slams his palms into the wheel, before scrubbing a furious hand over his face. 

“God damn it, Sam.”  He’ whispers, voice tear stained and broken.  “Why were we never enough for you?”  The question goes unanswered in the darkness of the car and Dean's voice cracks over the next words.

“You were always enough for me, Sammy.” 

The car’s fading away even as Sam reaches out a hand to comfort his brother. 

They're still in the Impala, Dean still seated in the driver’s seat. They've left the bus station and the sun stains the sky a soft pink as it climbs in the east.  His brother's silent, staring down at something in his lap.  Sam knows this Dean's years older, fear already beginning to etch its way into the older Winchester’s face. 

Sam looks out the window, curious, and he feels his heart in his throat.  They’re in front of an apartment building and Sam instantly recognizes the brick façade of he and Jess’ old home.  Dean continues staring down into his lap and when Sam turns back, he leans over to examine the object in the cradled in his brother's lap. 

A gasp punches its way through him when he makes out what’s printed into the glossy paper in his brother’s hands. 

It’s the picture from all those years ago, a photo snapped in a perfect moment and placed in Sam's hands by a kind stranger.  It’s the same as Sam remembers, Dean laughing, his entire face scrunched up as Sam stares up at his big brother as if he hung the moon and the stars.

After all that time searching for the photograph and it’s sitting in Dean’s trembling hands as he sits in front of Sam’s house.  His brother takes a shaky breath and tucks the photo into the inner pocket of his leather jacket, the spot right over his heart. 

He looks straight ahead then, staring at where Sam knows he’s still sleeping with Jess.

“I’m gonna get you back, Sammy.  And I’m gonna to be good enough for you to wanna stay this time.” 

He smooths his hands nervously over his jacket and then opens the door.  He steps out and he’s walking towards Sam, closer with each step, a single hand pressing nervously over the photograph in his pocket. 

Sam watches his brother as he approaches the door and leans over, lock picks in hand.  

A moment later the memory ends and Asia plays over cheap speakers.

“The heat of the moment…”

He sits up, realizing he’d fallen asleep on the floor and Dean’s not here, not holding Sam as he drifts off to sleep. 

“Sammy boy.  What memory was it this year?”  Lucifer’s voice drifts down from Dean’s former bed.  The bed springs groan as he hops down from his perch and kneels down in front of Sam, who’s still rubbing sleep out of his eyes.  “Jess’ pert little ass.  Maybe your first college party.  Tell me, what did you remember, Sam?”  Only an inch separates them, chill breath rolling over Sam's face as he blinks against the rush of cool air. 

Sam doesn’t know how to explain what he’s just seen because it’s not his normal memories, not his memories at all.  These were all Dean’s moments, Dean’s memories. A hundred different days stored away in the mind of a boy who once saved his brother from a fire.  

He takes a heavy breath, trying to explain what he’d found in his memories and he knows that he can’t turn away the Dean that comes to him in his dreans.  Knows that when Dean whispered, "I wish you could see the way I see you, Sam" he'd gotten his wish.  Sam saw every defining moment of the Winchester brothees and he knows that Dean's story is the same as the one he just watched. 

He's seen what his brother sees and he hopes desperately that he's half the man Dean Winchester believes him to be.  That man is worth saving and Sam needs to believe he can still find redemption.

He meets Lucifer’s gaze with a newfound fierceness in his eyes. 

“I remembered what it was like to be whole.” 


	9. Ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grief never heals.  
> You simply learn to cope with the ache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: this chapter contains a trigger warning for implied rape and torture.

Grief doesn’t fade with time.  It lingers deep down, a chronic sickness threatening to flare at the slightest provocation.

At least that’s how Dean sees the darkness he carries within him each day.

After that night he tells Sam their story life gets better, but it doesn’t eliminate that constant ache in his chest where he used to carry thoughts of his brother’s smile. 

Every night he dreams of Sam, his promise broken.  

That first night after he thinks it’s because he’s too weak to stay away.  He hates himself for lying to Sam as he finds himself standing in the doorway of that shadowy motel room.  

He forgets himself when his eyes catch the dark trail of blood splattering the floor and it's instinct that drives him to his brother.  He's moving towards the figure collapsed on the floor before he knows what he's doing.

He feels momentary guilt that he broke his promise to stay away.  That is until he reaches Sam and his catches breath in his throat.  

Brutality marks every inch of his brother's skin, the only indication of life in the shattered figure a weak fluttering motion of his chest as painful breaths wheeze past broken ribs.  There’s a particular brand of viciousness marked across his brother's flesh, eyes swollen shut in the recesses of his black and blue face.  His normal mop of auburn hair looks patchy, his scalp slowly oozing blood and if Dean squints he can see blood stained tufts strewn across the floor.

He collapses at his younger brother’s side, intent on comforting him.  He freezes though,a single hand hovering over the unrecognizable mess of broken bone and blood named Sam Winchester. 

The desperate need to save his brother rushes through him, but he refuses to touch his brother.  Not after he'd begged Dean to leave the night before. 

“Dean?”  Sam’s voice whispers hoarsely.  It only takes a moment to make out the swollen purple line spanning his throat and the older Winchester doesn't know how his brother can speak at all.  Rage curls in his belly.  “You came back.”

The rage dies down at the childish note in his brother’s voice and deja vu sparks in his chest, remembering the pitiful voice of his baby brother whenever he'd caught a cold as a child. 

“Yeah, buddy.  I always come back, you know that,” Dean soothes, trying to keep his voice level.  He barely manages to keep the panic from his voice; for months these nightmares have taken up his nights and this is the worst he's ever seen his brother.

He tries to take stock of the injuries.  Acid bile churns in his throat as he takes in his brother, Sammy's face virtually unrecognizable as swelling disfigures his bone structure.  Dean can just make out the twisted form of one of his brother’s legs in the shadows and he can only guess its odd angles come from being broken in more than one place. 

“What did he do to you, Sammy?’  he breathes in a strangled voice and he almost wonders if the cemetery carved into Sam's back was better than this.   

The younger man doesn't answer right away, trying to move his lips with the edema of his pulverized face and he coughs a little, bringing up bloody spittle as he speaks.  “He didn’t like it when I told him I wasn’t broken.  So he decided to break me for real this time.” 

Dean inhales shakily, nausea rolling in waves through his body.  “Is this because of what I told you, Sam?  Did he do this because of what I said?,” he exhales slowly, scrubbing a hand over his face.  

Silence sits between them for a long moment.  “That’s not really important, Dean.  I shouldn't have spoken up.  I know better.”  His voice is gritty, barely audible as air whooshes past his crushed windpipe. 

“Oh god, Sam.  This isn’t what I wanted.”  Guilt rages through him, shame choking his airways as he looks down at the broken brother who haunts his dreams. 

Sam lets out his own shaky sigh, coughing up scarlet with a pained expression, “It’s okay, Dean.  Not your fault.”  Dean can make out a faint whistling and he suspects if Sam opens his mouth any wider he'll see the bloody mess of gums where he's missing teeth. 

“Fuck, Sam,” he whispers. 

They’re both silent in the shadows of the room. 

“Dean?”  Sam speaks up, his voice small, laden with pain.

“Yeah, buddy?” 

“Will you stay with me?”  There’s hope in Sam’s voice and Dean feels sadness run through him.  After all this time his brother still doubts him, doubts his devotion.

“Of course, Sammy.  Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Sammy rests his head in his big brother's lap and he's silent a long moment.  "I don't want you to go.  I didn't mean what I said."

Hope rises in the older Winchester's chest.  "It's okay.  We've all said stupid things."

His brother pauses a moment and there's doubt in his voice when he speaks up again.  "Promise you'll come back, Dee?"

"Every night, Sam."

He keeps watch over his brother in the shadows of the motel room each night and it’s different this time around. 

They interact now, talking on the better nights.  All too often though, Sam can't speak past the pain and Dean finds himself in a one sided conversation, trying desperately to distract from the blacks and blues, the scarlet puddles, the wheezing breaths.   Dean touches him on the nights when the pain isn’t too bad, running his hands through his hair and blotting away the blood.  On worse nights, the one's with broken bones and ripped open flesh he lays Sam's head in his lap and whispers stories to him until his voice grows hoarse with exhaustion.    

The worst nights, the ones when Dean finds Sam naked on the floor and blood smearing his thighs he doesn’t say a word.  He pulls the blankets off one of the beds and cocoons his little brother in the scratchy, blood stained material.  He cradles the younger Winchester, silent in the darkness listening as Sam tries to hold back the sobs that tear themselves from his throat.

Overall the nightmares improve and so do Dean’s days.  After the better nights, he finds it easier to go out for beers with the neighbor, to help Ben with his homework.  He works, he cooks, he mows the lawn.  It’s the life Sam’s always wanted for him and he spends more time with his new family and less time yearning for the things in the dark.   

It's not perfect.  He drinks too much and sometimes he spends endless hours hunched over musty books, searching for some way to save his brother. 

Nevertheless, as eight months creep up on him he survives each day and that’s all he can ask for. 

Eight months of days absent of his brother.  Eight months of nights plagued by dreams of his broken imagination of Sam.  Even as he begins to participate in the days more, he still lives for the nights he spends with his brother.  He knows it's no coincidence the best days always follow the nights he dreams of memories instead of motel rooms and torture. 

He learns to cope, even if he can't seem to heal.

Eventually, he can even stomach pulling the tarp off the Impala and when Ben if he needs help, he smiles through the grieving nostalgia tearing through his chest.  He shows Ben the inner working of his Baby, he and Sammy’s home and eventually it doesn't hurt quite as much to see the only home his family's ever known. 

His life is different, outwardly normal and it should be everything he once dreamed of.

Of course, the details aren’t quite the same as he always imagined. 

He lives in a beautiful house that makes him feel claustrophobic, trapped sometimes.  He cooks meals for his family that he chokes down because grief long ago took the place of hunger in his stomach.  He sleeps next to a beautiful woman each night who he can’t bear to touch.

Lisa loves him and he sees it every time he meets her soft brown eyes.  He knows that she doesn’t begrudge him the nightmares and the drinking, the aching grief.  He’s eternally grateful for the understanding in her eyes when she reaches out to him and he pulls away, unable to stomach another human's touch.

He’s surviving and some days he even finds himself enjoying himself.  Days spent in the park with a disposable camera, early Saturday mornings spent watching Ben's soccer games.  Those days he can almost understand what had drawn him to this life in the first place. 

That doesn’t mean the grief isn’t a dark cloud that he fights each and every day. 

It reminds him of when Bobby used to complain about arthritis.  A constant ache that’s better on some days than others, but that never completely goes away.  A pain that permeates and a lot of days it stops you in your tracks until you eventually learn to function with the background pain wreaking havoc on your body. 

He wakes up each day and he lives the life he'd promised Sam.  Lives with the ache, fights the grief until he can close his eyes at night. 

He stumbles through the days, yearning for the nights spent keeping watch over his brother.   

Grief rules him and it takes everything in him to rebel against the chronic ache that threatens to devour him. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys let me just say thank you for all your incredibly sweet comments and support!  
> Luckily I've been able to update regularly, but seeing as this is a short chapter and some of you are anxiously awaiting the next chapter I highly recommend watching Alina0405video on Youtube. She's got the some of the best Sam & Dean fan videos out there and I use them on a pretty regular basis as inspiration for my writing. Needless to say I recommend watching them if you're craving some Sam and Dean feels.  
> Until next time guys.


	10. Watch Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wanted so deeply, for so long he'd forgotten that's what the pit in his stomach ached for.  
> It's not that he wants to hunger for his brother.  
> It's that the hunger's been in him as long as he can remember and he's starving with no way to satiate it.

Sam doesn't speak out anymore.

Lucifer takes the phrase "breaking a habit" seriously and he turns the metaphor literal with shattered calcium and bloody spittle.  

“I remembered what it was to be whole.”

Lucifer had broken his body without a single tool, his boots and belt more than enough to crush bones and bruise flesh. 

His tormentor can't shatter the hope that Dean sparked in his chest, the physical pain never permeating as far guilt ridden names carved into his back did.  Sam lives through the long tortured days waiting for the nights when he imagines, dreams that his brother comes to him. 

The confessions stop, replaced by brute force and Sam thanks whoever’s still listening for small blessings.  He fights each and every day to cling to the idea of redemption and he knows that he can't survive the long bouts of self-loathing sparked by a switchblade and a long list of dead.  Many days he feels like the boy with demon blood in his veins who left destruction trailing in his wake.  Those days he can't help but believe the venom spewed in his ear by Satan. 

But sometimes, when he's lucky, he can imagine Dean’s face as he holds his infant brother for the first time.  The lucky days he remembers how it felt to be loved with pure desperation by the only person that ever mattered.   

Dean makes him believe there is something worthy left in him every night he comes to him.

And that’s how he survives the long days spent bracing for every blow, every hungry touch.

He loses track of time as the days of torture drag on and on, endless agony marking every breath. 

That’s why he’s surprised when he falls asleep and wakes up under in the steamy heat of a shower. 

It’s day three hundred and sixty five and he doesn’t understand why he’s standing under a too hot stream of water with shitty water pressure.  If the pale green tile and sample sized shampoo are any indication, this is just one of the many motels the boys stayed in growing up.

Despite his surroundings Sam has to admit the water feels delicious, pounding down on the phantom aches he knows have been healed for the next twenty-four hours.  It’s been an impossibly long time since he’s taken a shower so he stands under the water, savoring the tattoo it beats against his back. 

He stands there until the water starts goes lukewarm and he shuts it off before the icy chill can remind him of cold hands brushing his skin.  He steps out of the shower and glances around before finding a scratchy towel on the rack.  He dries himself off mechanically, wishing if he was going to remember a shower it was a more eventful one, maybe one spent crowding under the water with Jess. 

It’s not a memory he immediately recognizes and that within itself is confusing.  All the others, they’ve been holidays, one of a kind moments not easily forgotten.  This is just any other day in the life of a Winchester and Sam can’t even place when this memory occurred, let alone its significance. 

He glances around until he finds a stack of clothes on the counter.  There’s a ragged Nirvana shirt and a pair of red plaid boxers that he pulls on.  Judging by the clothes he thinks this must be his late teens, because the shirt’s faded a call back to his early teens when he’d had a hard-on for Kurt Cobain, something he’d never admit to these days. 

He has a time frame, but more importantly he needs to know where Dean is because that’s the commonality in the memories.  His brother’s always there. 

He decides to go search for his brother and he flicks off the light as he turns the knob on the door leading to the main room.  He freezes when he hears the front door open, followed by a high pitched giggle that most certainly doesn’t belong to Dean. 

“Shh,” comes Dean’s gruff voice a moment later, slightly slurred.  “You’re gonna wake up the neighbors, hon.”

Sam pulls the door open ever so slightly and he can just make out the shape of Dean and a girl, back lit by the yellow street lights filtering through the blinds.  He feels heat flush in his cheeks as Dean pulls the girl in close for a kiss.  She wraps herself around him, grinding against him as she slides the leather jacket off his shoulders. 

Sam knows he shouldn’t watch this.  Worse he doesn't remember this, doesn’t understand why this particular moment merited one of his rare good days. 

He can’t look away though and his heart pounds in his throat as his eyes adjust and he can make out exactly what’s happening in the shadows.  He watches as Dean pulls his shirt over his head, smiling down at the girl as she trails a hand down his stomach until she’s palming him through his jeans.  His brother responds in kind, pulling the thin red dress up and over the girl’s head leaving her in a lacy bra and panties.  The girl’s pretty, tall and athletic long auburn hair brushing a round ass that Sam can make out from his spot in the bathroom.  She's gorgeous, but he’s not watching her.

He’s watching his older brother, no older than twenty, as he pulls the girl closer to him.  He kisses her slow, sliding his tongue into her mouth and Sam can feel his cock growing heavy in the thin fabric of his boxers.

He knows that he’s being a voyeur and if Dean knew he was watching he’d get himself a much deserved ass kicking.  But the moonlight glints off Dean’s abs as the girls fingers start to fumble with his belt buckle.  She drops it to the floor as moment later never breaking the kiss as Dean tries to kick off his boots.  They’re walking toward the bed now, Dean leaving his boots and socks in his wake as he drags his hands up and down the girl’s sides. 

The girl falls back onto the bed, but Dean doesn’t follow her instead standing between her knees as he looks down at her.  Sam feels a sick relief that his brother didn’t lay down, because his view's still unobstructed.  The older Winchester gives the girl a wicked smile and he’s undoing his zipper with a soft _snick_.  Sam holds his breath as calloused hands go to Dean's waist, dropping the worn denim to the floor. 

Sam gasps as he makes out the line of his brother’s straining cock in his boxer briefs and Dean looks up, suddenly meeting Sam’s gaze from across the room.  Sam curses, fumbling to close the as he searches for the rage in his brother’s expression.

He freezes when Dean shoots him a wicked smile instead, giving a minute shake of his head.  "Watch me, baby," he says softly, never breaking eye contact with Sam.  His older brother reaches his hand into his boxers, jacking his own cock in slow easy motion.

Sam feels his cock give a twitch where it’s hanging heavy between his legs and bites his lower lip.

He remembers this now, remembers how he'd thought it was a dream the next morning.  Remembers how every orgasm for months after revolved around remembering the thick outline of his brother's cock.  He'd thought this moment had been a dream, sparked by his sick hunger for Dean that he tried so long to repress.

The thought derails as heat builds in his stomach while he watches his older brother touch himself. 

“God so hot, Dean.”  The girl moans, her head falling back onto the bed. 

“You wanna watch me touch myself, baby?” he says, eyes still locked with Sam’s and his brother stops his hand, waiting for confirmation.  

Sam can’t hold back his nod.  He needs to see his brother fist himself, needs to watch his brother fuck a perfect stranger.  Dean smiles at him, hunger dark in his eyes as he hooks his fingers in the waistband of his boxers, his cock springing out as he pulls the fabric off.  Sam makes a fist and bites down on it, fighting back a moan.

He wants to resist touching himself, trying to ignore the throbbing want in his groin.  Dean wraps his fist around his cock, pumping slowly as he watches Sam’s face.  His brother's chest is flushed pink to match the swollen head of his cock and Sam couldn’t look away if he wanted to. 

“God, wanna watch you touch yourself baby,” his big brother groans between clenched teeth as he continues to jack the thick length of his cock.  He’s staring at Sam and he winks at him as he says it.  Sam can make out the girl’s hand sliding into her panties, but Dean isn’t watching the show she’s putting on.  He stares at his little brother with an expectant expression and Sam opens the door wider as he slides his own boxers down so his own cock pops out, bobbing up so it hits his t shirt clad stomach. 

Dean lets out a guttural groan, his eyes on Sam’s cock.  “God, that’s beautiful, baby.” 

The girl let’s out a giggle, unaware that her lover's attentions are directed elsewhere.  “Come over here and I’ll show you something beautiful,” her word's are lewd and Dean only spares her a glance as she gets on her knees, pulling him closer.  She drops to her stomach on the bed, staring hungrily at Dean’s cock as it bobs, leaking pre-come.  She reaches forward, wrapping the circle of her fist around its considerable girth. 

“Want me to suck your cock, Dean?” she asks huskily and Dean doesn’t break eye contact with Sam as he answers. 

“Want to get you on your knees, baby.  Watch you suck my cock, fuck that pretty little mouth of yours.”  Sam moans, his hand moving faster on his own cock and his memory’s coming back to him.

He’d almost managed to forget this lust, this want he’d felt when he was younger.  The hunger he’d felt for his brother when they were all they had and hormones ran wild.  He'd buried this moment, passed it off as a dream, wishful thinking and he knows now as an adult that this moment shouldn’t mean anything, a lustful moment of the past when he and Dean had overstepped boundaries like they always did. 

But he wouldn’t remember it now if it was only a lustful anomoly in a dark room.  Yes, there’s heat raging in his belly as he fists his cock, but there’s a softer emotion pumping through his veins.  His blood sparks with unfamiliar emotion it feels strangely like the love and devotion he’d felt for Jess when she’d been sprawled under him, coming undone under his touch. 

His thoughts are derailed as the girl opens her mouth and swallows Dean’s length, fisting it at the base when she can’t fit any more down her throat. 

Dean lets out a guttural moan at the same time Sam does.  “God, baby so good.”

Sam understands what this meant to him as a teenager.  In love with his older brother, moaning Dean’s name when he touched himself in the shower.  But he doesn’t understand why Dean’s indulging him, encouraging him.  Sam's not stupid, knows that what he’d felt for his brother had been his private, unrequited crush spawned from too many years spent in close contact. 

The girl sucks Dean off for a long moment and then he’s pushing her off gently, all the while watching the up and down motion of Sam’s hand on his cock. 

“Lay back, baby.  Wanna taste you, wanna lick you open.”  He shoots Sam a dark look as he pushes her back, sliding the thin lace material down her thighs.  “Bet you taste so good for me.” 

Sam doesn’t understand what his brother means for a moment and then flushes dark red with realization.  Dean must be able to see his expression, because there’s a new smile curling his lips and it’s even more wicked than the first. 

He kneels on the floor, pulling the girl toward him, her ass hanging over the bed slightly.  He leans down, swiping the wide swath of his tongue over the girl’s pussy as she lets out a moan.  “So good, baby,” he moans watching Sam who’s gripping the base of his cock to keep from blowing his load, as he imagines his brother's tongue flicking over his hole. 

Dean eats her out like a starving man, panting when his little brother starts to pump his cock once more.  He pulls back just a moment, breathing heavy with hunger in his eyes.  “I’m gonna finger you open after I fuck you with my tongue.  How many fingers, baby?  Two, three,” his eyes flash dangerously, “I bet you’d take all of them for me, such a good little slut for it.”  Sam moans out loud and he lets his boxers drop to the floor, stepping out of them. 

He knows what Dean’s looking for and he continues to pumping his cock as he slides two fingers into his mouth, sucking on them with gusto.  He’s only done this a couple times, slipping conditioner slick fingers inside himself as he showers.  He rarely indulges this private want, only when Dean and John are gone for long stretches of time and he knows he's alone. 

Dean’s watching him suck his fingers as he slides his own fingers into the girl’s wet pussy.  Confusion clouds his eyes, doesn't understand why his baby brother sucks on his fingers.  That makes it that much better when Sam shoots him a teasing look, pulling them out of his mouth with a pop.  He moves his hand to his entrance, a spit slick finger tracing his rim and Dean’s eyes go wide as his hand shoots to his waist.  Sam smirks, knowing he’s gripping the base of his cock to keep from coming.  The girl protests the loss of contact, but it takes Dean a moment to gain control as he watches the gentle up and down of Sam’s shoulder as he slides the first finger in up to the second knuckle. 

“Wanna watch, baby.  Let me watch,” he begs and Sam opens the door further, his fist leaving his cock as he turns sideways to prop himself up on the doorframe.  He knows his brother can see as he pumps his finger into the tight muscle of his ass.  Dean's eyes leave Sam's for the first time, his gaze trailing to his brother's tight ass as he fucks himself down on his finger.  The younger man's cock gives a jerk as he finds the bundle of nerves, a spurt of creamy white pre-come splattering the wall.  Dean flushes red as he pumps two fingers in the girl.  Sam's eyes are mischievous as pulls his finger out only to add a second spit slick finger and that’s when Dean can’t take it anymore. 

“Fuck, need to fuck you.  Need to fuck you so bad,”  he moans between clenched teeth and looks away regretfully from Sam's ass to search for his jeans on the floor.  He shoots up a second later with a foil wrapper in his hands that he tears open with trembling fingers.  He’s rolling down his cock a moment later and Sam expects him push the girl further onto bed so he scramble onto the mattress. 

Except he doesn’t, standing as he yanks the girl towards him and places her ankles on each of his shoulders.  She’s partially lifted up, her ass off the bed as Dean pushes into her glistening wet pussy.  All three  let out a loud moan and Sam pulls his arm off the doorjamb so he can wrap it around his cock again.  He pumps his cock, slick with pre-come as he fucks himself on his fingers, slamming  into his prostrate over and over again.  His chest heaves as he matches his rhythm to the one Dean’s pounding into the girl. 

“Fuck yeah, Sammy.  So tight for me, so good,” he moans and Sam almost freezes.  Surely his brother didn't moan his name?

He's close watching Dean pound into the girl at a furious pace, never once breaking eye contact with Sam. 

“Fuck Sammy wanna hear you come screaming my name.”

At that Sam’s cock jerks and he moans his big brother's name as hot spurts of come land on his t shirt.  He never takes his eyes off Dean who shouts, “Fuck so hot, Sammy.  So pretty when you come for me.”  He jerks arrhythmically for a few more thrusts before he shuts his eyes, moaning, "Sammy" in a reverent whisper as his orgasm slams into him. 

The room’s quiet after that and Sam realizes if the girl turns around he'll be seen, cock soft and sticky with come.  He pulls his fingers out of himself, grimacing at the dry burn.  He grabs his boxer's and closes himself into the bathroom with a last glance at his brother's who's collapsed on the bed with a blissed out expression on his face. 

It’s a minute before he hears voices again as he stands in the dark of the bathroom, his stomach itching as come dries on his shirt. 

He cracks the door an inch so he can make out what the voices are saying.

“Sorry babe.  The bathroom’s out of order, you know how these motels are.”  Dean’s covering for him and he lets out a sigh of relief.

The girl sighs and she has a pout in her voice.  “Okay, well call me, Dean.” 

“Yeah, yeah, sure thing doll,” Sam can see his brother ushering the girl out of the room through the crack in the door and he hears the door click open. 

Dean’s saying goodnight, thanks for the great time and Sam can make out the girl’s voice one last time before the door shuts behind her.

“My name’s Claire by the way.  Not Sammy.”

When the door’s shut, Sam lets out a sigh of relief but he waits in the bathroom. 

He flips the light switch and pulls off his sticky shirt, looking at his fucked out expression in the mirror.  

He cleans himself up and waits until he hears Dean crawl into bed, springs groaning as he flops onto the bed.  He steps out of the bathroom quietly, turning the light off behind him. 

His brother's apparently asleep, a lump in the bed next to his and Sam slides under the covers without a word, glad he doesn't have to talk about what just happened. 

He can’t explain this moment shared in a dark motel room with his brother.  As much as he wants an answer, sleep’s pulling him under and a moment later Asia’s blaring in his ear.

“Hello, Sam,” a voice whispers in his ear, cool breath rolling over the shell of his ear.  “How was the vacation, my sweet little brother-fucker.”

Dread mixes with the confusion in his gut and he clenches his eyes tight a moment longer, remembering how Dean had cried out “Sammy” as he came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!!  
> Once again thanks for all your great comments and thanks for keeping track of the story.  
> I just wanted to announce that I'll be posting a companion piece to this fic within the next couple days. I'll be posting extra memories and flashbacks there as I can't post all of them in the main story without bogging down the plot.  
> Leave suggestions for memories in the comments and I'll do my best to write them in. :)


	11. Twisted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He loved Sam too much for too long.  
> It's a twisted, tangled love that he can't seem to give up.

Dean startles awake from the dream, the heavy weight of his erection between his legs.

He'd never lived a celibate life before the apocalypse but he hasn't so much as jacked off in the months since Sam's death.  Hasn't craved sex the way he normally does, his cock soft even when Lisa presses up against him.   

Now, it’s the middle of the night and his needs to be touched.  Needs to come with the image of his baby brother's cock in his mind's eye.   

He’d forgotten that particular memory, buried under years of denial and shame. 

Shame that he’d searched out a tall brunette with hazel eyes and taken her back to the motel room where he knew his baby brother was waiting. 

He hadn’t planned to watch his baby brother finger that perfect ass of his while Dean fucked a perfect stranger.  He just liked the idea of Sam hearing him through the door, maybe getting hard as he listened to his big brother fuck some girl.  He'd never intended to drag his brother into it, but he couldn't resist when he saw those wide, doe eyes peering out of the bathroom at him.

Just because he hadn't planned that night doesn't mean he can deny responsibility.  It certainly doesn’t mean he can deny the way he’d watched Sam when they were teenagers.  His brother changed as they grew up and Dean couldn't resist watching the way his body had went from soft baby fat to lean muscle.  He’d watched the roundness of Sam’s features shed with each passing day, leaving behind cheekbones he wanted to press kisses into and a jaw he wanted to drag his teeth across.

The want had eaten him alive, want for the brother he didn’t dare touch because he couldn’t bring himself to destroy the thing he loved most in the world.

He knows Sam thought he slutted around town just because he could.  And it's true that he went out almost every night searching for someone to take to bed.

It wasn't something as simple as lust that drove him though.  He searched out girls that reminded him of Sam, ones with long legs and longer brown hair.  He’d sublimated the lust as want as best as he could, choking out his baby brother’s name each night with his cock buried in a stranger. 

That night he hadn’t intended to make his brother put on some sort of show for him, hadn’t meant to corrupt the only good thing in his life.  But when he’d seen him watching, seventeen and flushed with a tent in his boxers he hadn’t been able to hold back.

“Watch me, baby.” 

He tried to tell himself he was lonely, confused, too close to his brother for too long.  He wasn’t aching for his brother when he fucked girls with Sam’s name on his lips.  No, his body had crossed wires somewhere along the way; nerves mistaking undying love for a passion that made him want to fuck the lithe body of his teenage brother into the mattress.

Now, he lays in bed next to the woman he’s supposed to want, the woman he knows he should want.

Instead, he thinks of the way Sam’s cock curved up towards his belly as he stroked it, his gaze fixed on Dean as his chest heaved.  All these years later, he’s hard and he’s denied himself too long. That’s how he explains the moment when he rolls over and starts pressing desperate kisses to Lisa’s neck as she sleeps. 

“Dean?” she murmurs sleepily, turning to look at him as he places a hand on the soft flesh of her inner thigh.  “What are you doing?”

“I want this, baby.  I need this,” he whispers breathlessly running his hands up her sides.  He’s hard, aching and he feels his heart beat throb in the sensitive head of his cock.  “Please.” 

He sucks a bruise into her collarbone, eyes shut tight.  He pictures Sam  at seventeen, biting down on his own fist with a soft moan as his eyes fix on Dean's cock. 

Lisa lets out a sigh and pulls him up into a gentle kiss.  Dean quickly changes it to something desperate and hard, fucking his tongue into her mouth as he imagines what his brother would have tasted like.  What it would have been like to kiss that stupid smirk off his face just once.  She moans into his mouth and he takes it as the go ahead to slip a hand up her nightgown, pushing past cotton panties to rub gently at her clit.

She slides her hands into his boxers, cupping his ass.  He moans as he moves to straddle her, grinding between her thighs.  He doesn’t let up with the insistent pressure on her clit and she gasps as he slips two fingers inside her slick warmth.  She's enjoying this, it's been too long for both of them.

But Dean barely pays attention to her.  His eyes are clenched tight as he imagines his baby boy's thighs spread beneath him, precome slick cock curving towards his belly.  He imagines his little brother’s flushed chest heaving as Dean works a slick finger into his ass, prepping Sam to take his cock to the hilt. 

Lisa’s moaning under him, her breath stuttering as she grows closer and Dean imagines its Sam as he explores the inside of her mouth, imagines the tongue sliding against his own is his brother’s. 

He hears her cry out and then he withdraws his fingers, taking only a moment to tear off his boxers.  He settles himself between her legs and pulls her underwear to the side, impatient with the devastating hunger burning through his veins.  He slides into her with a grunt, overwhelmed with the tight heat for a moment before he begins to thrust into her. 

He bites back the words on his tongue as he moves, thrusting hard and deep.  “Sammy,” he wants to whisper.  “Go good for me baby boy.  So good, baby boy.” 

He doesn’t open his eyes as he thrusts into her and in his mind’s eye he can see Sam sucking on his long fingers before he slides them into his virgin hole.  He thinks about how it would feel to have his brother’s cock slide against his stomach as they moved together, as Dean rocked deep inside him. 

He wants his brother to be the one under his hands, wants to watch his brother’s face as he comes. 

There’s bitter regret on his tongue and shame in his belly. 

He wishes he’d kissed Sam before he’d lost him forever.

He wishes he wasn’t consumed with a sick, twisted hunger for his baby brother. 

Instead of trying to analyze he focuses of the tight heat he’s buried in.  He indulges in the memory of his baby brother’s obscenely long cock, the way way Sam had pumped its length with utter abandon. 

He can't get deep enough in Lisa, can't find the right angle.  He never stops pumping into her, grabbing Lisa’s ankles and resting them on his shoulders.  His grips her hips as he slams into her, knowing he'll find bruises on her delicate hipbones in the morning.

She’s incoherent beneath him and Dean doesn’t blame her.  He can think straight either, lost in images of Sam fucking himself, two fingers buried deep in his tight virgin ass.  He can see his brother’s cock bobbing against that stupid Nirvana shirt of his. 

He indulges his fantasy, pretends he can hear his brother moan, “Fuck, Dean.  Wanna feel you, wanna feel you come inside me.” 

His hips jerk, once, twice and then his comes hard.  He can’t hold back the name that falls from his lips.

“Sammy.”

He’s collapses on Lisa, trying to catch his breath.  When he's sure he can breath again, he slides out.  He grimaces at the sticky come drying on his softening cock.  He rolls onto his side, closing his eyes as guilt tears through his belly.

He just came inside the woman who loves him desperately, fucked her while imagining his cock buried in his baby brother’s ass. 

The shame's worse because he thought he’d gotten over it, gotten over the hunger.  He'd excused it as youth and raging hormones as the years went on.

Sure, some nights he’d found himself in bars, looking for some pretty twink with shaggy brown hair and pretty wide eyes.  He’d let the boys suck him off in bathroom stalls, brushing his hands through their hair as he whispered, “So pretty, baby boy.” 

Eventually when he’d collected Sam from Stanford, his brother had been so consumed with  his grief for Jessica at first Dean could ignore the jolt he felt when his brother brushed against him.  But as time went on he’d began to watch him again, began to dream about those lush lips wrapped around his cock. 

He’d almost been lucky when the apocalypse broke out because then there’d been no time to examine how he’d started looking at his brother again.  How he’d watched his brother when he wasn’t looking.

He’s broken out of his reverie when Lisa gives a heavy sigh and he feels her sit up in bed next to him.

He echoes her sigh, opening his eyes and when he turns he sees something desperately sad reflected back at him. 

“I heard you, Dean.”  Her voice is soft, gentle and there’s revelation mixed with the sadness.  He expects disgust, revulsion but it’s not there.  “Is there something about Sam I don’t know?” 

She’s reluctant to ask the question and Dean tries to play it off, gives a snort.

“There’s probably a lot about Sam you didn’t know.  He wasn’t exactly an open book.” 

Hurt's in her eyes and he doesn’t want to lie to this woman who’s opened her home and family to him.  Her eyes flicker over his face, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. 

“Dean, I-,” she stops, sitting up fully and staring at the far wall, unable to meet his gaze.  “I get it.  Growing up like you did, growing up so alone.”  She stops as if she can’t get the words out of her throat.  “You and Sam were all you had.  Sometimes it creates these crazy situations and once it starts you can’t stop.”

She’s staring at the far wall, but Dean can see the pity in her gaze and he feels anger start to boil in his blood. 

“It wasn’t like that between me and Sam.  Whatever, you’re getting at it wasn’t like that.”

She turns to Dean and he knows she doesn’t believe him.  She knows he’s not telling the whole truth.  “I’m not judging, Dean.  I know how much he meant to you and if- if you sometimes took comfort in each other then I just.  I just wish you would’ve told me.”

Dean sits up straight and puts his hands on her shoulders, turning her so she has to meet his eyes. 

“I didn’t fuck my little brother, Lisa.  I wouldn’t hurt him like that.”  She doesn’t need to know that he wanted to, doesn’t need to know the desperate want that plagued him for years. 

She pulls away, the disbelief lingering in her eyes.  “I’m not saying you did, Dean.  But maybe- maybe you felt something a little more than most brothers do.” 

Dean drops his grip and turns away from her.  That’s not a lie.  Sam has been everything to him since he held that fuzzy ultrasound in his hands and he knows that’s not normal.  He knows it’s not normal that he dreams about his dead brother every night, desperately hoping for any connection to someone he thought he’d lost forever. 

He can’t reply except to repeat himself.  “I didn’t fuck my little brother.” 

There’s tears running down his cheeks, the full force of shame slamming into him like a brick. 

“I loved Sam, Lisa.  More than anything in this whole wide world.  He was,” he scrubs a hand over his face, holding back a sob, “He was fucking everything to me.  I couldn’t do that to him.”

He hasn't cried since the night he showed up on the doorstep and Lisa’s draping herself around him.

“Shh, Dean.  It’s okay, I know you never would’ve done anything to hurt him.”

A sob cracks through him.  “But I wanted him.  I wanted him more than anything.  I always have.  Just because I didn’t _molest_ him doesn’t make me any less of a fucking monster.”

Lisa’s silent next to him and she takes a deep breath.  “Dean-,” she pauses.  “I don’t know if I should say anything, but I saw the way he looked at you.  Like he couldn’t look away, afraid he'd lose you if he stopped watching for one second.” 

Dean looks at her through watery eyes, “You don’t have to make me feel better about this," he gestures at himself, grimacing , "this fucked up lust inside me. I know I’m fucked up, Lis.  I'm no better than the things we hunted.”

Lisa shakes her head.  “He loved you, Dean.  So, so much.  And sometimes those wires get crossed and we want what we’re told we’re not supposed to.  We want something taboo, forbidden.  After everything how could you not feel something _more_ , Dean.” 

He shakes his head, cupping his face in his hands.  “You can’t understand it.  What I _felt_.  God, what I’ve felt since I was a goddamn teenager.”

“Dean did it ever occur to you that he felt the same way.”

Dean freezes and lifts his head up slowly, his voice shredded when he speaks again, “Don’t say that to me.  Don’t ever say that to me.” 

He can barely stand the thought of all those years spent lusting after his brother.  He knows he can't handle knowing Sam wanted him back.   

“I don’t think you’re a monster, Dean.  You wanted him because you loved him more than anything else.  You wanted him and it was just natural for you two.  Not wrong or sick, it just happened and I don't think you ever had a choice.” 

He remembers Ash’s word for what Lisa's describing: soul mates.  He hates using a cliche to describe what he and Sam had.  

But it fits.  They lived their lives as two halves of a single person, unable to leave the other.  Dean could never feel close enough to Sam, his brother the only thing that could calm the hollow ache in his chest.  It shouldn't have surprised him when his need for Sammy, turned into the need to be with Sam.

It doesn't give him a pass to lust after his unsuspecting brother.  

"We all have choices," he whispers, laying down with his back turned to Lisa. 

“Get some sleep, Dean.”

He doesn’t sleep that night and as time goes on he doesn’t talk about his brother with Lisa again. 

Instead he fucks her each night before he goes to visit his baby boy in his dreams.

They ignore the moments when Dean comes, Sam’s name tumbling from his lips.


	12. Active Participant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Whatever it is we have between us-love, family, whatever- they will always find a way to use it against us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: this chapter contains a trigger warning for graphic depictions of sexual assault. 
> 
> If you have personally been impacted by sexual assault please contact:  
> The National Rape Hotline at 1-800-656-HOPE or visit ohl.rainn.org for 24/7 support

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam mumbles, turning to look at the Lucifer who’s staring at him with a gleeful expression.

He scoffs, “Oh come on, Sam.”  He taps his temple, “I’ve been inside that noggin of yours, you think I couldn’t find all your nasty little fantasies about big brother.” 

Sam swallows, sitting up in bed and he can’t meet Lucifer’s gaze, staring at the mustard comforter tangled around his legs.  “It wasn’t like that,” he whispers, his throat suddenly dry.

The angel laughs, a venomous smile curling his lips, “Oh please, Sam.  I’m the devil.  You think I don’t recognize _incest_ when I see it.”

The word rings in Sam’s ears and he feels sick to his stomach.  He can't speak around the heavy lump in his throat.

“Unless there's a different word you prefer.  Tell me Sam, what's the word for wanting your big brother to fuck that pretty little ass of yours?” Sam can see him a mock thoughtful expression out of the corner of his eyes.  “Last time I checked incest was the most fitting one.  Unless you’ve got a better word for all your fantasies about Dean’s big, fat cock. 

Sam snaps then, rage flickering in his eyes as he turns to Lucifer.  “It wasn’t like that!  Dean never touched me, not once.”  His chest heaves and he’s angry enough dread doesn’t wash over him at the flash in Lucifer’s eyes.  He knows what it means, knows it’s a day to break bad habits but he doesn’t look away. 

Lucifer leans up in his face, close enough Sam feels chill air rush over his face.  “It’s okay, Sammy.”  He places a hand on his cheek, gently tracing the outline of the younger Winchester's cheekbone.  “You couldn’t help it.  You had all that demon blood pumping through you.  It was only natural for you to want something _wrong_.”

Sam’s heart freezes and he casts his gaze down.  "Dean didn't touch me.  Never that way." 

“Oh, Sam.  You think what you felt for Dean was pure,” he laughs, a harsh cackle.  “Is that what you told yourself when you pretended your pretty twink fingers were Dean’s cock?” 

Sam flushes dark red.  He’s always believed that what he felt for his brother wasn’t something so goddamn ugly.  He’d wanted him, yes, but only because he loved his brother.  Loved him so desperately it took his breath away

“Get up, Sam.” 

Fear chokes him as he stands up and he knows.  He knows what Lucifer wants.

The devil doesn't like the thought of his vessel being fucked by someone else. 

“You know the drill, Sammy.”  And he does, shaking hands pulling off layer after layer of clothing, standing bare in front of Lucifer’s hungry eyes.  He shivers in the chill of the room, wearing nothing but scar tissue.  “Turn around.”  Sam complies and he’s not surprised when Lucifer slams him into the bed, ass in the air. 

He whimpers, fear shredding through his chest as the cold hand presses him down. 

“Shh, Sam, no need to be scared.  In fact, I’ve got a proposition for you.”

Sam can’t reply, doesn’t want to make another deal with the devil. 

“It’s a sandbox down here.  I can make anything.  I can make it feel like it’s Dean fucking you.  Make you here his voice while I'm inside you.”

The man chokes, his breath getting stuck in his throat and panic screams inside him, his heart racing.

"Of course I can't look like him, even I have limits but I think I do a mean impression."   

“So beautiful, baby brother,” there’s cold breath in his ear, but it’s Dean’s voice, clear and gruff and perfect.  A sob chokes it’s way out of Sam.  “So good for me, little brother.”

He shakes, Lucifer's hands on his body and his brother's voice in his ear.  “No.”

The angel pulls away from his ear.  “What do you mean, ‘no’?  I thought you’d like it Sam.  Feeling big brother’s cock in that sweet little ass of yours.” 

Sam can’t breath, he doesn’t want to associate _this_ with his brother.  Doesn’t want Dean’s name so much as uttered in this place and the idea of Lucifer inside of him, speaking with his brother's voice sparks horror in his veins. 

“No,” his voice sounds out, hushed.  “Please.” 

He can hear the smile in Lucifer’s voice.  “And why shouldn’t I, Sam?  What’s in it for me?” 

Sam shakes his head against the mattress, clenching his teeth as he answers.  “I’ll give you anything.” 

The angel chuckles.  “I already take what I want, Sammy.  Sweeten the deal.” 

He trembles and waves of nausea crash through him him.  “I’ll do anything.  You won’t have to take it.  I’ll give it to you.” 

The laughter abruptly ends.  “Now that’s intriguing.  I've always wanted you to be more of an active participant in our little games."  He pauses considering, "But you’ve got to prove it to me.  You’ve got to show me you mean it or big brother’s gonna be fucking you dry with his teeth in your neck.”

He knows what he’s agreeing to.  Knows that he’s making a second deal, one that will result in him giving up the last of his pride.  

It's not a decision in the end.  He can’t ruin the memory of Dean, can’t stand the thought of associating all this agony and fear with his big brother.

“Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”  His voice grits out harshly, anger boiling in his gut.  He means it though, he’ll give anything to be spared Lucifer’s venom spewed in his older brother's voice.

“Alright, Sam.  If you insist," the angel smiles, teeth flashing.  "On your knees.” 

He falls to his knees, the raw burn of carpet on his knobby kneecaps.  He enjoys the scrape of carpet fibers on his skin, prefers the physical discomfort to the shame burning in his gut as Lucifer’s hand goes to his zipper.  He yanks the jeans and cotton of his boxers down, Sam’s eye level with his cock, thick and flushed with blood. 

“Swallow me down, Sammy.  Just like you always wanted to do to big brother.” 

Sam complies, feeling ice on his tongue and gagging as a the thick weight pushes into his throat.  He wraps his lips around his teeth, terrified of what would happen should he scrape Lucifer.  He doesn’t have time to adjust to the intrusion before the angel’s pumping into his throat.

Tears stream down Sam’s red face, a mixture of suppressed gag reflex and burning, disgusting shame in his belly.  Lucifer takes his time, seizing handfuls of Sam’s hair and pounding into his throat so the man can feel the soft flesh of balls bouncing against his chin. 

Lucifer doesn’t come though and he tugs at Sam’s head to pull him off after a few minutes.  “I have something better in mind,” he whispers and Sam wishes desperately that he could've just swallowed down a bitter load and been done with it.  Wishes this place would allow him that small mercy.  Lucifer undresses quickly and the other man averts his eyes, staring at the carpet as his throat aches. 

The angel scrambles onto the bed, laying flat before he speaks again, “Come on, Sam.  We both know patience is a virtue and that whole virtue business never agreed with me.”

Sam rises mechanically and goes to climb the bed.  There’s no room for him and he stands there for a moment, confusion clouding his eyes.

"All aboard," the angel chuckles slapping his thighs.  Bile in rises in the younger Winchester's throat as he complies. 

He climbs onto the bed and straddles Lucifer’s waist, desperately trying to ignore the weight of a cock pressing into the curve of his ass.  Sam’s soft and he’s glad for it.  Glad his body and mind seem to be in agreement for once.

Lucifer stares up at him, eyes dark and hungry as he licks his lips.  “You’re gonna ride me, Sam.  Just like you always dreamed about riding Dean.”

Fear chokes him.  He’s never done this dry, Lucifer always prepped him with blood or spit.  His tormentor looks at him expectantly and fists a hand around the icy flesh of his own cock.  “Come on, Sam.”  He’s pressing the thick head to his entrance and something in Sam breaks.  The fight leaves him and he’s presses back. 

The head slips into him, dry and it burns.  He feels as if he’s being torn in two, shredded inside and out as he bites his cheek to keep from screaming.  Lucifer smiles up at him and he thrusts up, bottoming out in a single motion.

A scream tears through Sam and he can feel the slow trickle of blood in his ass.  He’s frozen, breathing as agony shoots through him.

“Ride me, Sam or I’m gonna fuck you as Dean next time.” 

He begins to move, shifting back and forth as he attempts to ignore the stabbing agony every time he moves.  Lucifer groans, grabbing Sam’s thighs hard enough to pepper them with bruises. 

Sam grinds down into him, his flaccid cock showing no interest in the brushing movement of Lucifer’s belly against it. 

“Tell me you want me, Sam.”

He almost freezes, horror tearing through him.  He can’t say those words.  He'll give anything, but this.

He can’t say he wants it. 

“Say it, Sam.”  A deadly command.  “Say it,” this time in Dean’s voice and Sam feels a sob choke its way out of him. 

“I want you.”  He whispers and in this moment he’ll take anything.  He’ll take a switchblade confessional, he’ll take the horrible memories of his family’s deaths, he’ll take the toolbox.  Anything is better than those words on his tongue. 

“Tell me how good it feels, Sam.”

“So good.  You feel so good.”

“Tell me how much you want my cock.”

“I want your cock so bad.” 

“Tell me you’ll give me anything I want, tell me you want to ride my cock.”

Sam chokes back and clenches his eyes shut.  “I’ll give you anything.  I want your cock.” 

“That’s right baby boy,” Lucifer moans, hands going to his ass and pulling him down.  “You want this.” 

Sam doesn’t respond as the angel thrusts up and comes, spurting hot come inside him.  He stays inside him as his cock softens and then Sam’s pushed off unceremoniously, blood and come leaking out of his swollen hole. 

Sam lays on the bed, eyes shut tightly. 

“I expect you to live up to your end of the bargain, Sam.” 

There’s footsteps going towards the door and relief floods through him when the light turns off and the door shuts. 

He sobs into the pillow, ignoring the throbbing pain.  He can hear himself saying, “I want this”, begging for the devil’s cock.  Aching shame pumps through his veins.  He crawls under the covers and when Dean visits him that night there’s a somber knowing in his brother's eyes.

His brother crawls into the bed next to him and cradles him to his chest, ignoring the way Sam’s tears wet his shirt.

Dean’s touch is gentle, comforting and Sam knows he’ll give Lucifer anything he wants.

He can’t let Satan steal his brother's voice, can't associate the agony and shame of the Cage with the only person that matters anymore.

He lives for the nights spent with an echo of his brother, the rare days spent with a gleaming memory.

He will give Lucifer everything in order to survive.  Everything but power over his brother's memory.  


	13. White Noise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It will be all right."  
> It's a little white lie neither of them believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: This chapter has a trigger warning for referenced rape.
> 
> If you have personally been impacted by sexual assault and need help please contact:  
> The National Rape Hotline at 1-800-656-HOPE or visit ohl.rainn.org for 24/7 support

Eleven months.

Eleven endless months without Sam and it’s some sick tally he keeps in his head at all times.

Less than a year without his brother and he would’ve taken the lifetime he spent in hell over the goddamn ache in his chest.

He lives a good life.  A normal life.  

Lisa loves him, even accepts his less than brotherly feelings for Sam and he knows he should just be happy he’s not out on the streets after confessing his twisted lust to her.

Regardless of his days, good and bad, he still looks forward to his dreams at night and he wonders if this is how it will be forever.  If he’ll be sixty and falling asleep next to Lisa, waiting for dreams of his Sam. 

The dreams are strange and quiet these days.  At first he’d felt relieved when blood and bruises didn't paint his brother's skin, when cracked ribs and loose teeth didn't make every inhale whistle. 

Except he’s not so sure this is better.  Maybe better for him, better that he can’t see the evidence of violence on his brother’s skin. 

With each passing day Sam turns away from him and his eyes have a far away look.  Touch and stories can only ground him so much and futility taints every word Dean whispers in his ear.

Dean has always known there are wounds he cannot heal, pains he cannot sooth.  He's just never encountered it before.

He knows that he has met his match.  He only has to see the way Sam stares off into space.  There’s shame thump, thumping through his little brother’s veins and it's causing damage Dean can't find, much less heal. 

Only words can help now and he thinks back to those awful nights spent wiping blood from the names carved into his brother's back.  He'd fixed it somehow, told a story and taken some of that self-loathing upon himself.  But stories don't reach Sam and no good memory that can block out.

Sam won’t talk, hasn’t spoken in a month’s worth of dreams.  He lays next to Dean his eyes growing more hollow by the day.

The word rape tastes sour on Dean’s tongue and he prefers its sensitive pseudonyms.  Wants to call it assault or violation, anything but that ugly, sickening word.

But he knows that sometimes only one word fits.  Knows that to use any other word would be the same as lying.  

The ugliest moments in this room involved neither a knife nor a boot.  Knows neither could possibly break his brother.  So the word rape weighs on his mind, unforgivably, brutally honest.    

Brokenness hangs in the air, brokenness that tastes bitter with shame and self-loathing.  Someone broke his brother, tried a thousand weapons and found something that Dean had no hope of healing. 

He knows that it’s gotten worse the first time he finds Sam’s cheeks dry and when Dean reaches out he flinches away.  He'd forgotten that someone could break past the point of tears. 

He only sees his brother's body in small glimpses when he joins him under the covers but it's enough.  Evidence litters the scarred expanse of skin.  Small, circular bruises dot his brother’s hips in sets of five and a steady trickle of blood oozes down his thighs.  Minimal physical damage that becomes fatal the more it's inflicted and Dean will try anything to heal it.

He tries to talk about it each night, tries a different tactic with each silent uneasy dream. 

“It’s not your fault, Sammy.”

“You couldn’t have stopped him.”

“You couldn’t have saved yourself.”

“You don’t deserve this.”

“You’re not worth any less.” 

Always a silent, one-sided conversations.  One night he can't help but try to break through to him.

“I know he raped you, Sam.”

A flinch as if he’s struck the quiet form on the bed and Sam curls into himself. 

“It’s not rape if I said ‘yes’, Dean.”  

His first words in a month and there’s nothing to say as horror surges through Dean, crowding his brain with white noise.

“Sam, you can’t possibly think that.”  Panic swelling in his throat as he realizes his brother thinks he asked for the blood and shame.  “You’ve gotta tell me you don’t think that.”

A shake of his head, as an empty gaze stares fixedly at the floor.

“I said ‘yes’.  From the first day, I said ‘yes’ to everything.”  A dead voice, hollow and quiet in the silence of the room.

“Sam, you said that to survive.  You didn’t ask for this,” desperation colors his voice, he needs to make his brother believe he didn’t ask for this brutality.  

“I did, Dean.  I asked for it and I’d do it again.” 

He hears the desolation in Sam’s voice, all other emotion eaten up by the constant shame. 

“Don’t be sad, Dean.  I did it for us.  I don’t regret it.”

He doesn’t know what Sam could possibly mean and there’s a terrible realization dawning on him. 

“What are you saying, Sam?”

"I made a deal."

His brother made a deal with the devil and Dean's vision threatens to go white.   

“What did you do?”  Fear shakes his voice.  The beatings, the rape, the torture; they would have happened anyway.  Sam would have suffered immensely regardless of any deal he struck.  Lucifer had offered a deal to ensure Sam always assumed the blame and Dean knows that this is by far the worst crime someone has ever committed against his baby brother.

 _He_ doesn’t seem to realize it though and Dean wants to scream, wants to break past that empty gaze. 

Sam thinks he asked to be raped, to be tortured, to be _broken_. 

“I traded everything for one day.”

One day and Dean doesn’t know what to do with that thought.  Can’t make sense of his hollow eyed brother.

“Sammy.”

A pause and then Sam fixes his eyes on Dean for the first time, pain cracking through the glassy expression for a single moment.  “I don't want to talk about it.  What's done is done.  Can we just lay here, Dean?  Please.”

And because he gives his brother everything he wants, he slowly moves towards him and pulls him under the covers. 

He doesn’t talk about it again, he does what he’s always done. 

He tries to sooth away the hurt with whispered stories and a gentle touch and silent prayers to whoever was listening that better days would come.                  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, guys! I promise things are about to get better for our boys.


	14. Constellations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not a kiss.  
> Sam just can't figure out how to smoke the damn thing properly.

The concept of eternity is enough to make anyone balk.

Sam finds himself staring down its long tunnel everyday with no light in sight.

Except for the dreams and the memories of course.

So, when the first good day in a long year of pain and fear comes to him he feels a spark of life he hasn’t felt in such a very long time.

Heat clings to him, the denim of his jeans sticky with sweat as the fabric clings to his thighs.  He stands under a canopy of green trees, the late afternoon light streaming through the green filter of leaves.  He can see a swimming hole from where he stands, and he gazes at it longingly as the sweat drips down his back.

This memory looks like a lot of the others, set somewhere in a quiet forest in the too hot summer of the American South.  He knows his general location at least, only the South glues sweat soaked clothes to your skin within the first couple of minutes outside. 

“Sammy!”  It’s Dean’s voice and he feels a fragile smile tug at the corners of his mouth.  He feels the way he has to push past the shell he's built in the past year between himself and the world.  But there's a warm contentment fluttering in his chest and he decides that he can give up the wall; he needs this day, needs to experience every last moment.

He turns and sees the Impala parked on a dirt road where Dean’s leaning back against it. His brother looks as overheated as Sam feels, an AC/DC shirt plastered to his body where sweat pours in rivulets down his skin. 

“Come on man, it’s hot as balls out here!  Fucking slow poke."

Sam grimaces at his grumpy brother, shuffling slowly in the overwhelming heat.  He curses whoever invented denim for a moment, entirely sure he's going to have to peel the plastered fabric off his body later. 

“Goddamn it, Dean.  Why couldn’t we have just stayed at the motel, man.”  He grouses, wiping at the sweat beading on his forehead.

“Because, little brother.  I have better plans than laying around on our asses watching soap operas or whatever you girls do.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.” 

Dean shoots him a grin and leans forward, pulling a red and white box out of his pocket.  It’s a dented Altoids tin and Sam wrinkles his nose at him.

“Grandma candy, Dean?  Now who’s the girl?”  He smirks at him and the older Winchester rolls his eyes.

“Shut up, Samantha.  This ain’t Altoids.”  He opens the tin and Sam's hit with an overpowering wave of - _skunk_? 

“Jesus fuck, Dean.  What is that?”  Sam grumbles, hand going to his nose as he grimaces.  He bends his head to look inside and he can see a baggy with dried plant matter nestled next to some thin, almost translucent rectangles of paper.  His eyes widen.  “You didn’t.”

Dean beams, quirking an eyebrow at him.  “Oh yes I did, Sammich.  That right there is some grade-A Mary Jane, kid.”  He jumps onto the hood of the car, cradling the tin like it’s precious. 

“Dude, you cannot be serious.”

“100% percent serious.  This shit is dank and it’ll make this heat feel about a thousand times better.”  Dean looks earnest and Sam can’t help but snort.

“Dank, Dean?  When did you become the stoner hanging out behind the bleachers?”  Sam can’t hold back a smirk as Dean flushes pink.

“Shut up.  There’s nothing wrong with using the right terminology, asshole.”

Sam rolls his eyes at him, peering suspiciously at the tiny baggy of dark green plant fibers.  “That doesn’t look like a lot,” he mumbles and Dean scowls, offended. 

“Alright weed virgin.  Suddenly you’re an expert.”  He mumbles and Sam can see his hands fumbling with the knot on the bag.  

“Just because I’m not a stoner doesn’t mean I’m your innocent kid brother,” Sam complains, feeling his own cheeks flush pink and not just from the heat.  Dean meets his gaze, eyes sparkling.

“That’s exactly what it means, Sammy.  Which is why we’re gonna fix that today,” Dean looks triumphant as the knot comes untied and slides off the hood of the car.  “Now come on, dude.  I’m gonna teach you how to roll a subtle joint.” 

“Uh- no?”  Sam shakes his head, backing away as Dean pulls out a paper and lays it flat on the hood of the car.  “I don’t really want to, Dean.  It’s hot and I just wanna go home.” 

As much as he doesn’t want to look like the geeky younger brother the smell is well,  _dank,_ and he’s never really been interested in the stuff anyways.  He hadn’t even known that Dean was a smoker and well, it certainly explained the glazed over look in his eyes recently. 

“Ah, come on, Sammich,” he straightens turning away from what he was doing.  “Take a walk on the wild side.”  He steps closer so Sam can feel warm breath in his face and see his eyes sparkle, a flash of something mischievous in them.

Sam’s breath catches in his throat.  He smells Old Spice and motor oil and the heady scent that's pure, unadulterated Dean.  The smell of marijuana hangs in the air around them and he knows his dad would kick his ass if he found out.  He knows that this isn’t even really his thing.

“Why would I do that, Dean?” he whispers voice suddenly stuck in his throat as Dean breaths his air. 

“Because it’ll make you feel so good, baby brother,” he whispers and Sam feels a tug in his gut that's located decidedly south of his stomach.  “Even the heat will feel good.”  He licks his lips, the pink tip swiping across his lips almost lewdly. 

Sam almost wants to moan, wants to watch his brother’s tongue curl around something more- intimate.  He coughs instead, feeling the blazing heat rising in his cheeks.  “Okay, Dean.” 

Dean beams and steps away.  “Alrighty, Sam.  Let’s educate you on something that really matters, instead of fuckin' Algebra.”

He leans over the car and shows Sam how to breaks the plant matter into tiny pieces, how to pick out the stems mumbling something about how they ruin the taste.  He makes Sam do it all, showing him over and over before the younger Winchester finally manages a passable, if slightly lumpy, joint and Sam’s swiping his tongue across the paper to seal the joint. 

Sam looks up a moment, grimacing as a stray piece of weed lands on his tongue and he sees Dean staring at him, tongue flicking over his lips as something strangely akin to hunger burns in his eyes. 

He coughs a bit, offering the joint to Dean.  “That good?’

Dean jumps a little and takes the it.  He examines it and then grins at Sam.  “Aww Sammy’s first joint.  The stuff scrapbooks are made of.”

He rolls his eyes at his brother and he realizes the sun’s starting to go down, the heat easing up just a tiny bit.  Dean’s fumbling in his pockets and he finally pulls out a red Bic lighter instead of his normal Zippo.  He must sees the confusion in Sam's eyes because he pauses. 

“The Zippo makes the weed taste like shit.  Bic lighters taste a little cleaner.”  He grins a little at Sam.  "Only the best for my baby brother's first time.   

Sam flushes pink, his mind going to other first times but Dean doesn't seem to notice. 

“Are you ready, Sammich?”  Dean asks, a playful gleam in his eyes. 

“I don’t think I really have a choice.”  Sam replies as Dean passes him the joint and he goes to hold it like a cigarette.

“Nah, man.  You’ve gotta hold it like this,” his older brother pinches the tiny rolled paper between his thumb and forefinger then hands it back to Sam, an expectant look in his eyes. 

He corrects his hold and Dean steps close to him, his side pressed against Sam’s so he can feel his older brother’s sticky heat.  “Alright Sammy.  Suck it straight into your lungs or it isn’t going to work.” 

The older Winchester cups a hand around the joint to block the wind and the strange intimacy of it strikes Sam.  He wraps his lips around the paper and takes a deep inhale while Dean lights the end. 

The smoke tastes earthy, almost sweet and when the smoke hits his lungs it sears his airways and he starts hacking.  Dean takes the joint, laughing as he slaps him on the back.  “Easy there buddy.  Take small hits, you don't want to blaze it in the first go.” 

He wraps his pink lips around and takes a long inhale holding it in for a moment before he blows a cloud of smoke in Sam’s face.

There’s a buzzing in Sam’s veins, tingling warmth washing through his entire body and as soon as he stops coughing the joint is gripped between his fingers again. 

He inhales again, less enthusiastically this time, the smoke burning his throat.  He can't suppress another coughing fit as he passes it back to Dean who rolls his eyes.

“Yup, definitely a pot virgin,” he mumbles before taking another hit, watching as Sam coughs with an appraising eye.  He exhales, the smoke earthy in Sam’s nostrils and the tingling grows stronger.  His limbs feel heavy and his head feels light, like his body decided to enjoy itself in the most paradoxical way.   

He takes the joint again and when his lungs reject the majority of the smoke, Dean just snorts. 

“You’re supposed to be the smart one, Sam.  I think a seventeen year old would be able to figure out the mechanics of a joint,” he shakes his head, a smirk crinkling the corners of his eyes.  “Here let me try something.” 

Dean’s impossibly closer and he smiles wickedly at Sam, their gazes just level.  “Open up, Sammy,” he whispers and Sam lets his lips part slightly, watching the pornographic way Dean pulls a hit as the end flares orange for a moment.  Sam has to stop himself from gasping when suddenly Dean’s fingers wrap around his jaw, easing his mouth open wider.  Sam feels the warm haze of smoke in his body as his brother leans forward and presses his lips to his.

It’s not a kiss, not exactly.  Just a tight seal of lips and Sam inhales slow, earthy smoke rushing through his lungs.  Dean pulls away, eyes hazy and slightly bloodshot, smiling as Sam exhales the cloud of smoke.  “That’s it, Sammy,” he mumbles watching the younger boy's lips. 

He licks his lips and he can taste Dean amongst the smoke.  Musk and salty sweat and more than anything he wants to pull his brother back.  Wants to give him a real kiss.

“Um-."  He wants to ask Dean what the hell that was.

“That’s called shotgunning, Sammy.  And it’s for you newbies that can’t seem to grasp the concept of breathing.”  Dean pulls a drag off the joint and gives a disgruntled look when he finds it’s burnt down to the filter.  He throws it in the grass, stomping out the embers. 

His brother leans back against the hood of the car and Sam joins him, sprawling out on the warm metal, suddenly unsure of whether or not he can stand.

The sun’s setting, the soft green light filtering through the trees tinged a dusky pink.  The soft sound of Dean breathing mingles with the hushed hum of cicadas and even the searing heat feels good, thrumming through his veins.  The older Winchester sighs contentedly and Sam turns to him, a positively goofy expression lighting up his face.

Dean’s basking in the late afternoon light, his face illuminated so that his freckles stand out in the soft gold of his skin.  From here Sam can make out streaks of gold in the soft crop of hair sticking up on his brother’s head and he wants to run his fingers through it.  Wants to nuzzle into it and inhale the scent of cheap shampoo and Dean. 

His brother was right he decides sleepily.  He feels good, happy and the motel room speckled with flamingo murals and bloodstains seems a thousand miles away.  

He wants this moment to last forever, lit up from the inside out and sat next to his brother on top of the only home they've ever really known. 

They lay there for what seems like an eternity when Sam hears Dean shift and slide off the car.  The older boy looks unsteady on his feet, but he’s walking away from the car and towards the swimming hole in the distance. 

“Come on, Sammy.  I’ve got an idea,” Dean calls out, a slow easy grin on his face as he looks over his shoulder. 

 Sam isn’t entirely sure he can walk but after a moment he’s up and following on shaky legs, giggling as he stumbles over branches and tree roots.  It seems to take an eternity to reach Dean and the heat thrumming through his veins feels almost uncomfortable as he squirms under his sweat soaked shirt. 

Dean looks at him, a ridiculous smile plastered over his face.  “Let’s go swimming, Sammy.  Just like we used to.” 

Before he can even reply, the older boy's shirt is pulled up and over his shoulders.  Sam’s eyes linger over the strong expanse of golden skin, defined muscles dotted with freckles.  He thinks about how he would like to map out the freckled constellations dotting his brother's back using his tongue.  Shoes hit the ground followed by socks and jeans and it’s only a moment before Sam finds himself staring stupidly at his brother’s bare ass. 

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean smirks.  “Don’t be shy.”  He leaps into the air then, pulling his knees tight to his chest as he splashes waves of cool water onto Sam.  He emerges spluttering and laughing a moment later.  “The water’s great.”

Sam knows that he shouldn’t get in the water, knows that this is a dangerous game he’s playing with the less-than-brotherly lust burning in his gut. 

But the heat is gluing the fabric of his shirt onto his back and he finds shaky hands pulling his the sweaty material over his head.  Dean watches him , hunger cutting through the drug-induced haze clouding his soft green irises. 

Sam pulls off his worn Converse, unsteady of his feet as smelly socks get dropped into the pile of clothes.  His jeans fall to the grass with a muffled thump and he’s standing in front of Dean, all too aware that the warm heat of the marijuana has caused him to thicken in his boxers.  He almost wants to tell his older brother to look away, but there’s a heady cloud in his thoughts that urges him on and suddenly his fingers are looping in the waistband of his boxers and the blue plaid is a crumpled ball in the grass. 

He swears Dean flushes dark red and swears under his breath but he ignores it, enjoying the slight breeze rushing over his sweat slick body.  He grins at Dean who’s trying his best to avoid staring at the half hard length of Sam’s cock. 

He gives a smirk and rushes the water and sends up a tsunami with a shout of "Cannonball".

When he emerges laughing, he can here Dean grumpily spitting up creek water next to him. 

The water really is great, cool and perfect and for the first time all day Sam doesn’t feel like a sticky mess.  He swims toward Dean, snickering as the older boy rubs water out of his eyes. 

The sun’s set, dusk turning the sky from pink to a hazy purple and Sam thinks that’s the color to describe how he’s feeling right now.  Deep and hazy and perfect.  He’s close enough to breathe Dean’s air, practically nose to nose as they tread water, knees brushing every couple of strokes. 

Dean’s beautiful, Sam decides suddenly, his brother's eyes reflecting back the green of the trees as he stares back at the younger Winchester with a serious expression. 

“Beautiful,” Dean whispers reverently, echoing Sam's thought.  The older boy reaches out a pruney hand to cup his baby brother's cheek.  Sam leans into the warm touch, sighing against his older brother’s palm.  “Beautiful.” 

They tread water until the sleepy weight of Mary Jane drags at their feet and they find themselves simply floating.  They watch as the sky bleeds into midnight blue, the tiny pinpricks of far off galaxies shining in their eyes.  The heady taste of smoke and sweat heavy lies on Sam's tongue and he reaches out a hand to his brother, who twines their fingers together silently.  They float under the stars, the heady warmth thrumming through their veins for a long time. 

It’s a long time before Sam finds himself laying on the hood of the Impala again, this time in just his boxers and tee shirt.  He sprawls out next to Dean, listening to hushed rise and fall of his brother's voice.

The older boy traces constellations in the sky, as he tells ridiculous stories for his new constellations, even though Sam knows he secretly knows every star in the sky by heart.  He does it to make Sam laugh and every time his little brother giggles or snorts, his face lights up.  Eventually they fall silent, eyes heavy as they bask in the glow of THC in their veins.  

The weight of the humid summer air blankets them as they drift away to dreams of watering holes and far away constellations.  Sam dreams of the melanin constellations on his brother’s back.

And when Sam wakes up in that motel room, Asia in his ears, he knows that he can survive one more year. 

Even when Lucifer’s hands invade and demand and break him, he remembers the taste of earthy smoke mixed with Dean and the quiet, stifling heat of the summer. 

He remembers the way his brother had looked under the stars and it’s almost enough to make him forget that he’ll never lay beneath the stars with him again.          

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little dedication to my pothead friends I just bailed out of jail.  
> Because I got that awkward call while I was writing this chapter.  
> Anyways, I always thought Dean Winchester would be friends with Mary Jane and a friend of Dean's is a friend of Sam's.


	15. A Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I wanted my brother back."  
> The man that stands before him isn't his brother.

Dean had woken up this morning with the earthy taste of marijuana on his tongue, entirely sure this was going to be one of his rare good days.   

Now he stares into a pair of yellow eyes and panic viciously clenches at his heart.

“The big daddy brought your pal Cas back.  Why not me?”  Yellow-eyes laughs and Dean wants to deny this, needs to deny this.

He supposes that’s why he pumps a round into the demon’s chest. 

He’s suspended by his throat a second later, choking against the grip on his windpipe, the brutal sensation unfamiliar after all this time spent in the suburbs. 

“Pretty lady, real understanding,” Azazel mocks and between the stars starting to black his vision he feels panic surge.  The demon knows how he feels about Sam he thinks, how Lisa understood him even after his confession.  "Hell of a kid."   

Lisa and Ben took him in when he was a shell of a man, mourning for his brother and now he's brought a demon to their doorstep. 

“You had to know that we were coming for you sometime pal.”  Dean slams into the Impala, the hard metal digging into his back and he believes Azazel.  Knows he should have seen this coming from that night he showed up on Lisa’s doorstep. 

“You can’t outrun your past.”

His eyes flutter and he knows that he won’t make it past this moment.  He’s going to die and for a moment he wonders if he’s earned himself a ticket to hell.  If he could find Sam somewhere in the cage.  At least they’d be together.

There’s a flash of movement and a pricking sensation in his chest.

He makes out plaid and auburn hair just as he loses consciousness.

* * * 

Only a moment ago yellow eyes had stood before him, terror clenching his throat as he’d known he was going to die. 

Now Sam stands in front of him and he doesn’t have a thought to spare for Lisa or Ben as a quiet mantra grows in his head: _Sam, Sam, Sam_. 

He thinks maybe this is his dream again but it's not the right setting.  It’s a run down shack and he’s never been happier to be laying on a shitty cot in a shitty rundown hut. 

Sam’s talking but he can’t hear over the ecstatic _thump_ , _thump_ of his heart and he has a moment of realization.

“I’m dead.  This is heaven.”

Surely not hell.  Sam wouldn’t be in his Hell. 

He’s not entirely sure he deserves to a ticket to heaven, but if Sam’s here it must be his heaven.  No way Hell would give him the thing he wants most in this world. 

Except this Sam shakes his head, says Dean didn't die.  

No, Sam is real and alive and _home._ Dean slams into his brother, pulling him in tight so he can savor the steady rhythm of his baby brother's heartbeat. 

But his brother starts talking again, something about Djinn and hunting and then Dean's breath catches in his throat.

“How long have you been back, Sam?”

A year, he says.

A year and Dean’s been rotting, merely existing in limbo because he thought Sam would have wanted this normal, apple pie for him. 

A year of nightmares, a year of Sam’s tortured body and mind laid out on bloody motel carpet and Dean wants to scream.  Wants to scream at the cold, appraising man in his brother’s skin. 

Dean has lived through a year of hell, not Sam. 

He knows he should feel relief.  Knows he should be overjoyed that his baby brother's back. 

Except, he can’t shake the thought that his brother isn’t the same anymore.  

His brother would come to him.  His brother wouldn’t let him suffer like that, grieving him for an entire _fucking_ year. 

A wave of inexplicable grief washes over Dean, staring at his brother. 

This is Sam Winchester,  no doubt about it. 

But this isn’t Sammy.  This isn’t the boy he bribed a ride attendant for or lit fireworks with.  Sam Winchester, not Sammich.  Not Sasquatch. 

No this is his brother with dead, cold eyes and his gaze churns Dean’s stomach as they hunt the Djinn. 

Sam Winchester has been returned to him and someone forgot to give him back his baby brother.  

Sammy saved every last person he could.  This Sam lets those people die without a thought.

Sammy begged to drive the Impala.  This Sam doesn’t want Baby, doesn’t want the only home they've ever known.

That night, it doesn’t surprise Dean when he dreams of a broken Sam in the dark motel room.

Some part of him knows his brother never really left the cage because the man that hunts with the Campbells, the man who walked back into his life?

It isn’t his brother.

It’s the empty shell of a man the Cage spit back out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during S6:E1 Exile on Main Street
> 
> Sorry for the really short chapter guys, but I had a hard time putting this episode into words.


	16. Pay the Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I would’ve let the whole fucking world burn if it meant I got to watch the flames standing next to you, Sam.”

Dean comes to him each and every night and as time goes on he stops telling stories.

Instead, he shifts to the present tense, speaks as if Sam isn’t there in Hell but traipsing around on cases somewhere else. 

One night Dean comes to him, relief flooding Sam's body as he listens to the familiar sound of his brother's footfalls.  Dean joins him on the bed and pulls his little brother's head into his lap, infinitely tender as he silently brushes his fingers through Sam's hair.

Silence hangs in the air for a long time before Dean opens his mouth to speak. 

“I don’t understand, Sammy.”  His voice sounds wrecked, shredded with anxiety.  “I got you back.  I got you back and I just-," he sighs, the sound infinitely older than the man it belongs to. "What happened to my baby brother?” 

Sam doesn’t understand what he’s talking about, can’t comprehend past the fog of pain.  He's right here, has been for the last century, give or take.  Honestly, he lost track a long time ago.   

“I know-,” Dean sighs, a little frustrated sound, and Sam can feel the broken exhale in the way his brother's lap shifts, “I know what Hell does.  How it breaks you.  But it’s not like you’re _broken_ , it's not something I can fix.  It’s like you're someone else wearing my brother’s face.” 

Sam doesn’t know what to say to him, wants to comfort his brother, this strange grief stricken dream of Dean. 

“You're cold, Sammy.  So fucking cold.”  He breathes in deep, shakily as if he’s trying to hold back tears.  “God, Sam.  I went home to Lisa because I’m so goddamned terrified that you're standing right in front of me and I never really got you back.” 

He needs to say something, needs to take away some of Dean’s pain even if he writhes in his own each and every night. 

“I would come back to you in a heartbeat, Dean.  You know that.”  He whispers it, his voice rough from endless screaming, endless crying. 

Dean laughs bitterly, the sound wet with tears.  “That’s the thing, Sammy.  You didn’t come back to me.  How fucking broken I am that my baby brother didn't even want to come back to me?"

Sam’s silent and wonders why this version of Dean would think that.  How any Dean could possibly believe Sam had any other place than at his brother's side.   

“Fuck, Sam.  You’re the only family I’ve got,” he snorts softly.  “The Campbells are blood, sure, but Sam?”  He breathes out slowly, shaking his head.  “You were my family.”

“You were mine, too Dean,” he replies softly, listening to the soft rise and fall of his brother’s breathing.  “My entire family.  You know that.”

Dean doesn't seem to believe him. 

“You had Jess, though.  You could have had a real family if you’d gone with her.  But I came to Stanford and dragged you into this.  I fucked up your whole life.”

Sam doesn’t know why he bothers engaging in these conversations, knows it’s far too late to tell Dean the things he wanted to during his life.  He supposes it’s just that fucking lonely in the Cage, so he indulges his hallucinations and dreams, talks to them like his brother’s really here.

So he tells his brother a truth he never dared say out loud.

“I loved her, yeah.  But it was so long ago and I never loved her like I should've.  Never loved her like I loved you."  It's a confession whispered in the dark and encouraged by the knowledge that this isn’t really his brother.  “She reminded me of you actually,” he smiles, nostalgia flooding through him remembering her blond hair and green eyes.  “I saw her and I thought, ‘God, she looks like Dean’,” he laughs louder this time, a real laugh even in the confines of hell.  “She sorta acted like you.  Brutally honest, sarcastic, liked a good glass of whiskey.” 

Dean’s silent above him, hands frozen in the soft strands of Sam’s hair. 

“I think she knew how I felt about you,” Sam whispers, reveling in the warmth rolling off Dean as he talks.  “I never said it, not exactly.  But-,” he bites his lip, “sometimes I’d say your name when we had sex.  I tried not to it just-,” he shrugs, "it just sort of happened." 

Dean's practically stopped breathing, listening to the way his little brother speaks about him, quietly, reverently. 

“God, she liked some kinky stuff, Dean.  I always thought you two would like each other,” the younger Winchester chuckles sleepily, remembering the way he’d blushed bright red the first time she’d suggested it to him.  “She liked, what's it called uh-  _pegging_  and, God, Dean.  I always imagined it was you.  Every time.” 

Silence fills the room. 

“Shit, Sam.”  There’s raw grit in his older brother’s voice, lust and grief bleeding into the words. 

He just wants Dean to understand what he means to him.  Wants to explain it like he never got the chance to.

“I know, it’s wrong, it’s sick but I just-,” he halts on the words, “I just always felt like I was supposed to be yours.  So don't you ever think I want to be anywhere but by your side.” 

Dean’s hand slips lower to touch his face, tracing over delicate cheekbones. 

“Someone once told me it’s just the way we were meant to be.  Just natural, not sick or wrong,” his older brother sighs.  “Jesus, Sam.  I wish you had come home to me.”

Sam breathes in and out slowly, relishing the warm calloused fingertips tracing over the battered canvas of his face.  “You _are_ home, Dean.  You always have been.” 

Dean laughs a sad, broken noise.  “Some home I’ve made for you, brother.  You’d be better off calling those shitty motel rooms home.” 

Sam turns then, head still cradled in his brother’s lap.  He can see the dark hunter green of his brother’s eyes even in the shadows of the motel room.  Tears glisten in the older man's eyes, shining in the dim light streaming through the blinds. 

“I wouldn’t trade you for anything, Dean,” he reaches out and grasps Dean’s hand.  “Anything.  Jessica, mom, dad.  You’re everything, always were.  You have to believe that.”

“Why’d you leave then?  Picking Stanford over me?  Fuck picking _Ruby_ over me.” 

Sam squeezes his hand tight and pulls it to his lips, brushes them gently over the rough skin there. 

“I didn’t want to wait around for something I could never have.  It hurt too much.” 

His big brother twines his fingers tightly around his fingers.  

“I would’ve given it all for you, Sam.  How can you not see that?” 

“I wasn’t going to force myself on you, Dean,” he says and it’s harsher than he intends.  He softens his voice.  “We both know you would’ve given me anything I asked for, even if you didn’t want it for yourself.” 

Dean’s so silent, so still in the dark that Sam wonders if he’s struck a nerve. 

“God and I refused to hurt you, Sammy.  Refused to corrupt my little brother.  And all that time-.” 

They both fall silent.  

“Well, I guess we should’ve just told the truth, then,” the younger man says and the words convey a lifetime of regret.  “Instead of dreaming about confessions in blood soaked motel rooms.” 

They’re quiet for a long moment. 

“I got to see you with a kid today, man,” he changes the subject and Sam can just barely make out a glint of white teeth in the dark as his brother smiles.  “In some other life I bet you would’ve made a great dad, Sammy.  Before Hell, before all this.” 

Sam echoes the smile back at his brother.  “I know you make a great dad, Dean.  To Ben.” 

Dean snorts.  “I actually kind of suck at it, Sammy.  I try though.  Just try not to be like Dad.” 

He shakes his head slowly, looking up at his big brother who will never know how much he's loved, how much he's worth.  “You raised me, Dean.  I _know_ that you’re a great dad.” 

He can see more tears building in his brother’s eyes. 

“I tried, Sam.  I couldn’t save you though,” he exhales shakily.  “You’re so fucking empty and I can’t reach you anymore.”

Sam freezes and squeezes his brother’s fingers tight, thinking back to being six, seven, eight years old.  Squeezing Dean’s fingers in dark motel rooms when he thought the monster in the closet was coming for him. 

“You’re home, you’re in the passenger seat and it’s like you’re still dead,” he stammers a bit, trying to articulate.  “It’s almost worse.  I can see you and hear you and touch you except it isn’t you.  It’s like someone handed me a sketch of Sam Winchester and it doesn’t even compare to my brother.  Can't even compare to my fucking dreams.”  His chest heaves.  "I lost you to the Cage and now it's like it happened all over again."

Pain clenches at his heart and he wants, needs Dean to believe that it will be okay.   

“I did it for you, Dean.  You know that right.” 

His brother’s breathing slows and his voice is pained when he answers.  “You did what, Sam?”

“This.  Hell, saving the world, all of it,” he says softly.  “When he’s here with me I like to think about you, living with Lisa, being a dad to Ben.  Even if I’m not there at least you get to live your dream.”

Dean lets out a slow breath, the sound heavy with the weight of the world.  “I would’ve let the whole fucking world burn if it meant I got to watch the flames standing next to you, Sam.” 

They’re quiet, silently acknowledging the fucked up want, the fucked up need for each other that’s defined their entire existence. 

“That’s not who we are, Dean.  We save people.” 

“Yeah, well what if this one fucking time I wanted to save my brother.”  There's so much unspoken in those words and all Sam can think of is a much younger Dean ' _Why do we have to sacrifice everything, Dad?"_.

“You saved me enough, Dean.  It was my turn to save you."  He owed his brother that much, after everything.  He owed his brother at least a chance at a normal life.   

Dean raises his voice.  “You shouldn’t have had to, Sam.  You never should’ve been in that cemetery and you shouldn’t have had your life signed away for you when you were six months old.” 

Sam’s silent and he thinks about how heaven and hell have determined their lives from beginning to end. 

“It was worth it, Dean.  All those people, all those lives.  You know that.”

His older brother lets out a broken sob, tinged with rage and grief in equal measure.  “It doesn’t fucking feel that way, Sammy.  Every time I look at you there’s this shell of my brother looking back at me and it’s not the fucking same.”  Futility weighs his voice in his voice as he grits out the next words.  “How is it fucking worth it that I get to live out some life that I don’t want while you're tortured and raped and god knows what else.” 

Sam can’t reply to that, doesn't have an answer for his brother. 

“I paid with _everything_.  We fucking paid from the moment we were born.  And this world where you’re a robot that looks like my brother is my reward?”  Dean shakes his head, the motion tight with rage.  “I wanted you, Sam.  I’d have given everything to have saved you.  I paid some impossible price so that _you_ could live in some white picket fence neighborhood, not so I could pickle my liver and fail at being someone’s dad.” 

They’re silent, listening to the rise and fall of Dean’s breathing. 

“Dean, you have to believe it was worth it.  All of this.  Nothing good has ever come from all this regret and grief.” 

Dean scrubs a hand over his face, wiping at drying tear tracks. 

“Yeah, I know, Sammy.  I know.” 

“Hey, Dean,” he says quietly. 

“Yeah, Sammy.”

“You know I’d come back to you if I could, right?”

Dean pauses and lean runs a single thumb over Sam's bottom lip, impossible grief in his eyes. 

“You didn’t, Sam.  You didn’t come back.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place after S6:E2 "Two and a Half Men"


	17. Compass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not like after Dean came back from Hell, torn up from the inside out with guilt and nightmares.   
> Instead it’s like his brother's moral compass has been wiped and it's spinning wildly out of control.

He sits in another shitty motel room, perched on the edge of a queen bed and it’s exactly where he was a little over a year ago.  Sam’s out, scrounging up whatever No Name, Wisconsin has to offer in the way of food.  It’s familiar he thinks, two army green duffels strewn across the floor and one of his little brother's flannels thrown over the back of a chair.  His pistol sits on the nightstand next to him and Sam's laptop's open on the scratched up kitchen table, the local police department's homepage pulled up.  Now that they’ve figured out the case of some kid and his Moses staff Dean hopes for something easy.  No angels, no demons just your average monster.  A salt and burn or maybe a vamp nest. 

From the outside it's his life, no different than the last couple of years.  Sam's by his side, Castiel's at his call and it should fill the aching hole in his chest that’s eating him alive. 

Except lies surround him and he’s confronted by the newfound wrongness of it all every way he turns.

He thinks of the way Castiel had simply abandoned Sam after the battle with Lucifer and anger tightens his throat.  Ignoring Sammy after he'd sacrificed everything.  Daring to abandon his little brother when he so obviously needs help.   

Of course, even he can’t exactly define the ways in which Sam needs help.  It's not like after Dean came back from Hell, torn up from the inside out with guilt and nightmares.  Instead it’s like his brother's moral compass has been wiped and it's spinning wildly out of control.

He thinks about the little boy today, the one who murdered three cops for vengeance and he knows that that should horrify him, a child killing people in order to avenge his brother.  Never even giving it a second thought.  Except he knows that he’s done a lot worse for Sam.  He sees how that kid and him are the same.  He’d do a lot worse, has done a lot worse, to save his brother time and time again.  So honestly, maybe his definition of moral doesn't measure up to your average person's but he can tell something's wrong with his brother.  Can tell Sam needs all the help Dean has to offer.     

Problem is, he's not entirely sure how he can save Sammy from whatever _thing_ it is that has his brother walking around with cold eyes and prevents him from caring when Cas tortures a kid right in front of him.  

And despite it all, he wants to turn to Castiel, he needs his best friend's help but there's something different in the angel that scares him.  Something cold and uncaring that echoes his brother's newly minted amorality and it stifles the urge to demand he get his feathery ass down there and tell him exactly what’s turned his brother into fucking Robocop.

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face and it figures that none of this ever gets any easier.   

He’s back in the hunt, away from the suburbs and, miraculously, he still has Lisa and Ben.  He has quite literally found himself the best of both worlds, a compromise between his want for a family and his discomfort in the civilian world.  Except, he feels just as out of place as he had a couple weeks ago.  He feels naked, uncomfortable, like half of a set that’s missing the matching piece. 

He supposes he’d just become accustomed to having Sam at his side on the hunt and he knows that this new Sam hasn't really been there for him.  Not once. 

Sure, his brother’s turned into a hunting machine that John Winchester would have been damn proud of and Dean’s not exactly worried that Sam’s going to let him get ganked when his back’s turned. 

It’s more a general uneasiness when Sam turns towards him and it’s not the dimpled smile of his brother he's wearing, but a cold, mechanical smirk that makes him mildly nauseated. 

He’s not alone, not technically.  That doesn't stop loneliness from pumping through his veins, right alongside a steady diet of takeout and liquor.  Fact is, his brother isn’t the same person who’d ridden shotgun and complained about the constant stream of classic rock coming from the radio.  Instead he’s a stranger that doesn’t bat an eye when Castiel oversteps his bounds, crosses the lines of human decency and he thinks that maybe that’s what’s happening here.

He’s the only human left in the bunch. 

He has to hunt alongside an emotionless echo of his brother and he desperately wants to believe that Hell did a number on his brother.  He hopes it’s just the aftereffects of torture, some mixed-up, rare form of PTSD because when has a Winchester ever been lucky enough to be the norm. 

Except, he knows how he felt after his own stint in Hell.  Knows the nightmares would still haunt him today if they hadn’t simply been replaced by the soft, shadowed echoes of a tortured Sam filling his head each night.  This thing with Sam is something worse, not as if he’s suffering or a head case. 

He can only think of the words that had spilled out of his mouth trying to explain Hell to his little brother all those years ago. 

_Sometimes I wish I couldn’t feel anything at all._

He knows now that was a stupid wish.  He gets the distinct impression that Sam doesn’t feel anything at all and it’s not something he would wish upon his worst enemy. 

If Dean can't fix this there's a whole new truth to confront and it's not one he can handle: his brother never came back. 

He supposes that’s why he stoops over his duffel and pulls out a book he’d stolen in the last town’s library.

A tattered copy of the DSM falls open in his lap and it’s almost automatic the way his fingers find PTSD in the index.  He'd almost laugh, reading a book so rooted in normal people's problems but he's desperate and sometimes the supernatural doesn't have a solution for dead stares and memories of torture.  

He mumbles symptoms, flips the pages again and again but he knows that it’s not going to be that simple.   _"_ _Tortured by Lucifer for a century"_ isn’t something your average shrink has experience with and so it’s not surprising that Sam’s generally fucked up mental state isn’t detailed in the thick volume in front of him.    

Frustration's evident in his taut shoulders as he throws the book back into the bag, scrubbing a hand over his face as he gets up to find what he really needs right now.  It’s only a moment before he’s back on the bed, the bottle of whiskey pressed to his lips.  The burn eases the tension in his shoulders, the general unease burbling in his stomach 

He knows he could leave now.  He could distance himself from this terrifying echo of his brother and go back to Lisa, to Ben.  But, something deep inside him drives him, whispers _stay, fix him_ even when every last instinct screams  _run_.  And he knows he'll listen to the whisper, knows it’s the same thing that’s driven his actions his entire life.  Giving up the last of the food, selling his soul, fighting with John: every last act driven by the same thought process, _protect Sammy_.  It's the fundamental compass for every last action he’s ever taken.  And he will save Sam, even if he’s not entirely sure that it’s his brother riding shotgun next to him anymore.

The door opens and he hears the crinkle of bags, smells fried food. 

“I’d say I hope burgers are okay but I already know that’s 90% of the Dean Winchester diet,” Sam’s voice comes from the doorway as the door clinks shut and the deadbolt slides into place.

He can’t help the wave of unease that washes over him when the door shuts and he’s trapped with the empty shell of his brother. 

“Ha ha, Sam.  You're hilarious,” he murmurs.  It’s not in him to banter with his brother tonight. 

He wants so desperately to bring it up again, to force a confession out of his brother. 

It would feel so much better if he could just get Sam to admit something was off, something was wrong. 

Except he says he’s okay, says he’s strong, “a little rough around the edges” and Dean doesn’t know how to force the issue. 

So he eats a burger and avoids the cold gaze of his brother, excusing himself to bed with an 80 proof sleep aid in hand. 

He closes his eyes, praying for a good dream tonight but knows he'll take a nightmare so long as he gets to see his little brother.

He knows that the dreams should have stopped the second Sam walked back into his life.

Instead they’re the only link he has left to his brother and as much as it hurts to see Sam broken on that motel room floor, it hurts far less than seeing the cold, empty gaze of the man in the bed next to his. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs after the events of S6:E3 The Third Man.


	18. Blur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam Winchester he reminds himself sometimes when the pain blocks out all thought and he isn’t entirely sure who he once was.

Tired.

That’s the only word that he can put to the bone deep exhaustion that’s settled in his bones over time.  

He knows its not quite the right word and it irritates him that he can’t think of the right word, right adjective for this sensation.

It’s a solid decade before he realizes the word for the feeling doesn’t exist, no one has ever needed the word before. 

Tired, exhausted they can’t touch the deep dark well inside him that drains and drains until he doesn't understand where it's pulling from. 

He’s not entirely sure what Lucifer’s draining, siphoning off of him and he learns the human mind can only take so much before it starts to forget. 

He forgets names like Jess and Ellen and John.  Important names like Bobby and Mary fade.  When he thinks about it he finds far off blurry memories that match those names but they’re echoes of faraway places and people.

The only constant is Dean. 

“Sammy,” he whispers.  "Little brother," he murmurs, plush lips ghosting over his forehead and Sam thinks it's only right that his brother remains when it all starts to fade.   

All the little details have started to fall away, crumbling under the onslaught of time.  The smell of the Impala, the way Stanford autumn crisps leaves into scarlet and gold, the taste of Jess’ sugar cookies.  Little things, important things blur and corrupt and its like exposing film to direct sunlight, sharp lines burning into patches of white. 

He doesn’t want to forget, wants desperately to remember all the moments that made Sam Winchester the man he was.

He was twenty seven when he came here and it’s been a lifetime and more since that day.  Twenty-seven years of thought and experience can't compete with a century of this shadowy Hell. 

He never expected a long life, the grandkids and rocking chair on the porch.  He does wish he had a few more years to draw on, maybe the names and places wouldn't fall away so easily.  He knows he lived a decent life all things considered.  After all this is how the hunter's life ends.  Young and gone too soon to a terrible fate. 

Lucifer shatters his days, Dean soothes his nights and that’s how endless days pass.  Day after day, and he can't pinpoint the exact moment when emotions like shame and guilt and pain start to blur into one another.  They bleed into one another shifting into a thrumming pain eating at his veins.   _Broken_ some part of him whispers when he tries to find the word for it and he stops arguing when tears stop flowing.   

Broken, he thinks and some part of him had hoped it wasn’t within the Winchester blood to break.  But he lays on the floor, blood stinging at his eyes as Dean’s voice trying to pull him back and he knows.  Knows that he’s trapped in some torturous erosion, as if he’s an ancient monument worn away until there’s nothing but the most basic elements left. 

These days, days filled with agonizing pain and shame are broken up by bright rays of light where he can remember who he is, where he remembers what the sun felt like beating down on his skin and what Dean’s hair smelled like. 

He long ago stopped keeping track of the days, good days included.  Losing count was inevitable in the shadowy confines of his prison cell. 

So he hopes that today will be a good day and every so often he’s right.

One day consists of hot chocolate and mini marshmallows and sleds made out of trash can lids.

The next a wicked chain and he learns the sensation of hooks tearing flesh. 

The next cold fingertips teach him the futility of the words “Please, no”. 

It’s a cyclical process that seems random except in the most basic of aspects.  

There are good days and there are bad days.  There are relived memories paid for with compliance and the devil's kiss and then there are blurred echoes of a short, hard lifetime long since overshadowed by an afterlife of blood and dread.

The cycle starts over again. 

A day spent learning to hustle pool with his brother’s breath brushing past the shell of his ear and the scent of hops filling his nose. 

The next he gains firsthand knowledge about how his dear sweet Jessica felt when flames licked her flesh and burned to the bone. 

That’s how the days go.  Shame and cold dictating most every moment, pain snapping and crackling along nerve endings.  

He thinks if this were real life he would have become desensitized already. 

He feels every blow and crack and snap as potently as day one. 

He feels nauseating shame as potently as the first time he bent over that blood soaked mattress. 

Darkness bleeds into him even as his blood soaks the carpet and he supposes this is the worst part of Hell.  When all the light starts to fade and he lives because he has to, not because he wants to.  No escape save bygone days and long lost moments. 

_Sam Winchester_ he reminds himself sometimes when the pain blocks out all thought and he isn’t entirely sure who he once was. 

Through it all he never forgets the man that comes to him in the night.  No, he never forgets Dean.  Not once.  He whispers about days from their childhood, whispers questions about Sam and Bobby and new cases. 

The words feel distant, the stories unfamiliar but the calloused hands brushing his back send shivering echoes of _home_ through him.  The scent of old Spice and motor oil never blurs under the press of time and pain.

There are things so ingrained they never fall away, even under the pressure of long lifetimes and incomprehensible agony.

Some inkling of knowledge in his head says researchers once found that when patients lose their memory their most important knowledge is the last to go.

He likes that thought.  That even if he’s a shivering heap of pulverized flesh and bone the last memory that lingers will always be Dean.  His scent, his touch, his voice.  The last part of Sam will be the first part of Sam and it’s the name that’s lived on the tip of his tongue his entire life: Dean, Dean, Dean.

Lucifer breaks and shatters and demands more and he gives it.  He gives it all because such a very long time ago he promised all that and more in return for a good day. 

A day spent on a rickety boat with a questionably sound fishing pole and Dean’s voice quietly singing "Over the Hill and Far Away".  Sam doesn’t mind that it scares the fish away.

The next he begs because cold hands demand it.

The next he learns the crackling agony of a shattered jaw locked in a scream.

He’s lost most of his memory, most of what drives him and he prays for the good days because they’re the only moments that afford him a sense of self, a sense of reprieve.

My name is Sam Winchester, he reminds himself when it all starts to fade away. 

He never forgets the name of the man who comes in the night, the man who cannot be described with words alone.  He learns there's no word to describe his brother, much like the tired ache in his bones.  He supposes _everything_ comes close enough.

Memories fade and corrupt and blur with age.

When everything’s gone he’ll be okay with what remains. 

A soft, everlasting mantra sparking his neurons and pounding through his veins.

Dean, Dean, Dean.   


	19. Out of Place

He sits in the dark of a motel room, mercifully alone.

He can still feel the effects of the vampire blood, feels it in the throbbing ache of his head and the sting of his eyes when headlights flash past outside. 

It’s painful, uncomfortable but that’s not why he sits sleeplessly staring at the far wall.  That’s not why relief flooded through him when Sam mumbled something about going out and shut the door behind him hours ago. 

He’s grateful he’s alone because suspicion has evolved into dreadful, nauseating truth.

Sam is not his brother anymore.

He saw it, saw the way a smile curled at the corner of Sam’s lips when the vamp grabbed Dean, when the monster forced blood down his throat.  Dean may have been the one turned, but his brother's the monster in this equation.   

That's not the way it was meant to go down, _never_ the way it should’ve gone down.  Sam would cut his own arm off before he let Dean get turned, the kid's willing to pull all sorts of stupid shit in order to help big brother out.  He supposes he should speak in the past tense because now it seems there’s no lengths Sam won’t go to in order to get what he wants.

There’s a lot of fancy words for what’s churning Dean’s gut at the moment.  Words like betrayal and dread and grief but there’s an emotion underlying it all and it's not one he's particularly familiar with. 

Dean is scared.  Sure, he faces vampires and ghosts on a weekly basis, but the whole monster thing just loses its shock value after a while.  It takes a lot more than a fanged beastie to crack a Winchester's wall.   

All bets are off when hazel eyes and dimples come into play.  

He’s scared that there’s an impostor sleeping three feet away from him each night, scared that his brother’s riding shotgun to Lucifer.

More than anything, he’s scared this isn't a monster, just Sam come back irreparably damaged.  He's scared he’ll have to live with the cold eyed monster his baby brother has become or put a blade to his throat while he sleeps.

Neither is an answer he’s willing to deal with, neither is really an option because if there’s something Dean has learned about himself it’s that he will save Sam.  Regardless of the situation, the price or sacrifice demanded of him he will save his brother.  His soul, his life, his very existence are tradable goods when it comes to Sam and he’s more than willing to pay the price.  The same way he was willing to use the five finger discount back when Sam was a hungry eight year old, he’s willing to sacrifice himself to fix the cold eyed stare of the man who wears his brother's face and name. 

As glad as he is to be alone now, nursing a throbbing headache and his anxiety over Sam, he has to admit he's really fucking tired of being lonely. 

Lonely comes with the life of hunting, he learned that watching his father fall into bed with strangers and drink away the money earmarked for his sons’ dinner.  Lonely is as much a Winchester trait as alcoholism and asinine self-sacrificing behavior.  Just the way life goes. 

Except, he always had Sam and after that Lisa and Ben.  And sure, those two couldn’t possibly fill the hole his brother left behind, but he didn’t blame them for that.  He couldn't even blame Sam for that, his baby brother never asked to be the center of Dean’s universe.  Nevertheless, Sam tempered the loneliness and after he was gone, Lisa tried her best to be there for Dean.

After his stunt with Ben he wonders if Lisa will ever bother to speak to him again.  He doubts it, knows if someone laid a hand on his kid he wouldn’t give them much more than a sound ass kicking and a landfill’s worth of hospital bills.  Shit, he used to raise hell when punkass kids smacked Sam around and Sam wasn't even technically his kid. 

He likes to think that’s the cause of this loneliness eating at him, losing Lisa and Ben.  After all they've been his family for the past year, but he knows that’s not quite it.  It runs deeper than that.

Without Sam, he doesn’t have a place in this world, doesn’t belong to anyone or anywhere. 

Used to, he belonged to Sam and Sam belonged to him.  Sam and Dean.  Full stop.  Never one without the other, never Sam without Dean, the names never heard apart except as a call and response. 

_“Sam.”_

_“Dean.”_

Now Sam wears cold smirks and dark expressions in the place of his baby brother’s smile and he feels as alone as he did a year ago in that graveyard, staring at the spot that swallowed his brother.  This loneliness transcends the average person's, it's a darker breed that exists on the same plane as grief.  It makes sense, the piss poor approximation of his brother Hell spat back out will never hold a candle to his Sammy.   

Without Sam, without Lisa and Ben he’s out of place.  He can't even say he belongs to the community of hunters, because he's never had a reason to seek them out.  

Even in the world of hunters he's alone, one half those Winchester boys, and he knows not all of the talk surrounding them's good. _  
_

Sure, he’s long since transcended the skills of the average hunter, but as much as the hunting community appreciates skill, they know when to leave well enough alone.  They know to turn tail and run when the Winchesters come into town.  Sure, they're perfectly willing to  pawn off cases on the boys, but it wasn’t as if they considered themselves friends of the Winchesters.  _The Winchesters will get you killed_ , they whisper in hunter bars and Dean can’t even argue.  Because it's true, isn't it?  He doesn’t want to get people killed, but if it comes down to Sam or a stranger it's always gonna be Sam.  Always Sam, because nothing and no one had even a fraction of Sam’s worth for him.  That’s just the way it was and everyone knew it.

Sam and Dean.  Their names always tumbling one after the other on other people’s tongues and Dean knows that if he's lost Sam for good this time he’s completely alone in this world.

Because where the fuck else can he go?  Hunters are scared of him and rightly so.  Civilians shouldn’t come near him.  They don’t wanna know about the creatures under their bad and he has a way of shedding light on the monsters, the things that go bump in the night. 

He's like every other Winchester.  Out of place in the world of civilian and soldier, never really belonging to anyone or anything except his brother riding shotgun.

Without Sam, the aching loneliness can’t be filled, not really.  Either he fixes Sam or he pickles his liver trying to forget the days when he had a home in the form of dimpled smiles and miles of plaid.   

The pounding continues in his head and he wonders when, or if, it will go away.  He wonders if it's really caused by the vampire blood or just fueled with the knowledge his brother's willing to sacrifice him in order to track a nest. 

It’s a close call and both is probably the best answer.  He considers breaking into the med kit and indulging in some narcotics, he probably deserves it after the day he’s had. 

It’s only the knowledge that Winchesters are not a people of moderation that stops him.  His head’s killing him but he thinks the near empty whiskey bottle by his feet has probably done enough damage to his liver for the night.  Not that he thinks he’ll live to see the damage, but he’ll be damned if he survived an apocalypse just to die from something so goddamned _normal_ as cirrhosis. 

He even considers praying to Castiel, despite the fact he’s been a massive feathery dick lately.  Who knows, maybe the angels possess some heavenly cure for "hell turned my brother into a sociopathic dickhead" syndrome.

He doesn’t have the energy to deal with Cas though, his head hurts too bad and he’s still angry enough over his shitty behavior towards Sam that he refuses to make the call.  It’s one thing for him to be mad at his brother, but Castiel has no right.  It's a basic law of family that boils down to "I can do what I want to my little brother, but if you touch a hair on his head I’ll fuck you up". 

That leaves one person so he fumbles for his phone and speed dials one of three numbers in his phone.

He picks up on the third ring and it’s a relief to hear a friendly, if slightly annoyed voice. 

“Hey, Bobby.  I need your help.”    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs after the events of S6:E5 "Live Free or Twi-Hard"
> 
> Happy Supernatural Premiere and National Coming Out Day guys!!!   
> Two national holidays all in one! :)


	20. Improvement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows that he should care.  
> He just doesn't anymore and if you ask him it's a big improvement.

Sam Winchester is not and has never been a stupid man.

Something’s wrong.  He knows it and has for months.  Hell, he's known since he woke up in that field. 

He thinks about exactly how horrified he should be with himself, but it's more an observation than anything else.  He’s not overcome with guilt, not wrestling with his morals and he couldn’t give less of a shit.  In fact, it's a relief more than anything.  

Sure, he hasn’t slept in over a year and he's lost the ability to feel, really feel emotion.  Sure, he’s brimming with animal energy, energy he can’t burn off with sex or exercise or hunting.  And yeah, he doesn't understand what's going on and doesn't want to, which frankly isn't like him.  He should be worried, should be seeking out a solution.  But he doesn't feel particularly inclined to seek help and, well.  Don't fix it if it ain't broke.  Simple as that.

There’s memories in the back of his brain, memories that he knows should tear him apart.  He remembers flashes of the Cage, none of them pretty and he knows if he could really _feel_   them he'd been gone in a nanosecond.  A drooling mess on the floor.  No one survives the Cage and comes out as relatively unaffected as he has.  So if you ask him, a few less emotions is a small price to pay for his relative sanity.  

Tonight, he's alone.  Dean suggested separate rooms for once, probably planning on picking up some desperate barfly for the night and Sam's glad of it.  His brother’s, well still his brother, but he’s just relieved he doesn’t have to put up a front for once.  It’s exhausting trying to keep up the old Sam façade and he lets it slip sometimes.  He can’t help it, it’s just so goddamn hard trying to act all concerned and emotional constantly.  He can't grasp how he could actually see other people from up on his high horse before.  Pre-cage he was just another sanctimonious prick, in his opinion, and he should probably look into sending Lucifer a thank-you card for fixing that particular problem.  Somehow he doubts he can pick up a Satan appropriate thank-you card at Walgreens. 

Hunting, fucking, eating, they all come easier these days.  Like everything’s been reduced, simplified to animal need and he understands those drives, those wants.  It’s  cut and dry nature and he doesn’t find himself second guessing every last action or word.  He wants sex he picks someone up in a bar, male, female doesn’t matter.  He wants a fight, he finds the nearest monster and puts the fucker in the ground.  Rinse, repeat.  Simple enough. 

Hunt, fuck, eat.

He can deal with those drives and it's an added bonus sleep’s missing from the equation.  He doesn’t get tired, doesn’t dream and he can deal with that.  It's not as if he'd slept well before; the few hours he caught on lumpy motel mattresses generally consisted of nightmares and visions anyway.  So far, he’s done a pretty good job of hiding the no sleep thing from Dean and so long as it doesn’t end up on his brother’s list of _"things wrong with Sammy"_ he’s fine with it. 

It should probably bother him that his brother’s little more than a nuisance these days.  At best, he’s an asset in the field and even then he just gets in the way of what Sam needs to do half of the time.  Then again, his moral compass is a tiny bit fucked so it doesn’t hurt having Dean around.  He can’t let himself get too out of control, it would raise suspicions.  Dean and Bobby, they would see the way he acts and feel the need to fix this _thing_. 

He doesn’t want to be fixed.  His life has boiled down to necessities and wants and that’s all there is to it.  The constant underlying mantra of Dean has disappeared from his brain and he wonders how the hell he ever managed to keep that up.  How did he get anything _done_ with all his thoughts constantly absorbed with Dean?  Not to mention, how he lived his life so completely wrapped up in someone else, regardless of how it affected him.  Sure, he understands the not insubstantial lust for his brother, he’s not _blind_.  But, God no one’s ass is worth that kind of constant anxiety.  Even if it is as perky as Dean’s. Worse than that, he knows it extended so far beyond what lust alone could account for.  Hell, he’s not entirely sure love could cover it.  Love was something normal and healthy, something most people experienced in their lifetime.  

Even if he can't feel it anymore, he remembers what Dean sparked in him.  A yearning, ache that drove him every day of his life.  Not love, not affection but something so far beyond the constraints of words he doesn't understand how he carried it with him all those years.  Normal people loved.  Sam and Dean drew together like magnets, straining one towards the other in an unstoppable propulsion as natural as gravity.  No, they didn't have a relationship, nothing as pedestrian or simple as that.  They possessed something akin to religion, devotion and admiration and need tangled and twisted into something virtually unrecognizable as human.  No, they loved and yearned in a way that transcended logic and conscious thought.  Love turned pure instinct, a destructive force that held no regard for anyone but the two people ensnared in it.

It’s pathetic.  How much he needed someone else, how much he entangled his own self-worth with brother's opinion of him. 

Some part of him aches to feel that again, to love again, after all Dean had been his driving force since before he'd sputtered out his first word.  Which, yes, happened to be _Dee_ , but that's not the point. Logic says it's probably better he leave all that in the past.  Normal people don’t feel things like that.  Normal people certainly don't feel things like that for their _brother_.  

Of course, normal people don’t let their brother get turned by a vamp just to track a nest but that’s besides the point.  So what if he’s yoyoed in the opposite direction?  Caring too little has gotten him in far less trouble than the whole caring too much bit.  Seriously, burning in hell?  He knows the whole transcendental love thing had convinced him to do a lot of dumb shit, but willingly signing on as Satan's plaything?  If that’s not evidence for how fucked up his relationship with Dean was he doesn’t know what could be.

The whole vamp situation was moot point anyway.  Dean had been turned for a good reason and Sam knew that it wasn’t going to have any lasting effects.  Shit, he wasn’t a monster, the guy had quite literally sold his soul for him once.  He wouldn’t have done it if there hadn’t been a way to save him.  But there was a way to save him and turning him didn’t hurt his brother in the long term.  So, in the long run, really not a big deal.    

Now, he hadn’t exactly planned for Dean to remember him hanging back, waiting for him to guzzle some vamp O-positive.  That could cause problems in the future, but he thinks he sold the whole "freezing" bit pretty well.  After all, Dean seems to think he's still his weak, pain in the ass little brother from before the cage and old Sam might’ve done something like that.  All that _love_ freezing him up in the moment.  Well honestly, that old compulsion to protect his brother probably would've made him tear the monster's head off with his bare hands but Dean doesn't need to know that.  

Nope, he’d just done what needed to be done.  It'd been for a good cause,  they’d found a solid lead on the alpha vampire and that’s their real job.  Hunting things, saving people, all that.  So what if Dean took a hit every once in a while.  Hell, the way they’d carried on with saving each other before, it was a miracle they saved anyone else along the way.  The way he saw it, cold logic meant better hunters who saved a lot more people. 

Of course, he’s been a little more trigger happy than usual and, in all honesty, he should probably cut back on that.  Dean would definitely know something was up if he knew the way he’d shot that bartender.  Or that small town cop Rob or Roy or whatever.  Yeah, big brother would definitely feel the need to come to the rescue and he’s not interested. 

It wouldn’t be that bad returning to his old self, it might be nice to feel something once in a while.  But, there's so much shit that comes with feeling.  The bond with Dean only covers some of it; with feeling comes the exhaustion, the guilt, the nightmares.  He'll enjoy this while it lasts, enjoy a world free of the weight of guilt and shame.  Besides, as long as he can keep Dean at arm’s length, no one’s the wiser and no one really gets hurt.  No one important anyway.   

Besides, he appreciates some of the more physical aspects to his newfound freedom.  Before, he'd been too morose to do much more than jack off in the shower a couple times a week.  Now he spends his nights scoping bars and it satisfies some of the animal hunger in his gut.  It’s a different sort of hunt, one that doesn't involve ghouls or rock salt, but it’s the same principle.  Same thrill. 

And on the nights he doesn't want to bother with charming some lonely local, it’s easy enough to find a service.  Makes it easier to find men and honestly, he prefers them.  They like it rougher, harder.  That and it's easier to pretend the body beneath him belongs to the person he's been lusting after since he knew what his dick was for.  

Men were harder to find considering how many hunts landed them in small towns populated with Baptist churches and prayer circles.  When there was a choice though, he knew he'd always pick a man.  They tended to satisfy better, for longer and he was more than willing, happy even to shell out some hustled money for his preferred gender.

Nowadays, with Dean constantly in the bed three feet away it's been hard to satisfy the unadultered need bubbling under his skin.

Needless to say, he gladly accepted separate rooms for the night.

Not sharing a room is a blessing for many reasons and the main one tentatively knocks at the door.  He smirks, hopes Dean is having fun with whatever town slut he’s picked up tonight.  He can keep himself entertained while his brother plays with the locals.  

He opens the door and he blesses the perverted techie that invented online ordering.  Because this is so much closer than anyone he's found so far.  

Wide green eyes, dirty blond hair and pink lips and he knows the man standing on his doorstep doesn’t hold a candle to Dean.  He’s a close enough approximation though, especially in the poorly lit shadows of the motel room. 

He supposes he could just ask Dean to bend over for him, but he refuses to fuck his brother.  That would put a kink in their working relationship and he’s not stupid.  He’s not going to ruin a perfectly good team for a perky ass, regardless of who it belongs to.  Even if he’s lost his scruples about the whole incest thing, he doubts Dean would really be down with bottoming for baby brother. 

No, he'll sublimate with lookalikes.  It's easier than dealing with Dean's closely guarded morals.   

For now it's enough because the man smiles nervously, his eyes flitting appreciatively over Sam as he steps in the door.  Sam takes his coat and he smiles charmingly as he leads him over to the bed. 

He takes a seat, Sam towering over him.  It's easy enough to pull his money clip out of his pocket, counting the bills silently before he presses them into the outstretched hand in front of him.  The man's eyes widen.  It's too much money and he knows it.

Sam's willing to pay for what he wants and the extra cash comes with a stipulation.  He gently reaches out, tilts up his chin and meets the green eyes that could never compare to Dean's. 

“Extra money's yours, just one rule."  

"And what's that?" the man asks, Adam's apple bobbing.  Obviously worried his client wants something strange.

"You’re gonna be big brother tonight, sweetheart,” he drags a finger over the wet flesh of the man’s lips and the other man swallows, arousal blowing his pupils wide as he relaxes.  Nothing too weird, with the added benefit of a generous tip.   

“What should I call you, then?” 

He smirks down at him, unzipping his fly.  “Just call me Sammy.”            

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs between S6:E5 "Live Free or Twi-hard" and S6:E6 "You Can't Handle the Truth"


	21. Tangled-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lies make the tongue taste sweet, the truth goddess had said.  
> Sam’s tongue would’ve been a goddamn delicacy.

The case shouldn't have been this hard.  Serial suicides could mean all sorts of things.  Vengeful spirits, witches, cursed objects.  Any of which would've been easier than some bitch goddess who got off on breaking people under the weight of the ugly truth.  

Well, if this place insists on forcing the truth out of people he has some questions for his brother.  He intends to capitalize on the curse if he's gonna be stuck with it.  Hell, he's willing to deal with a whole lot more than some spectacular exercises in oversharing in order to hear Sam’s confession. 

Of course, he doesn't intend for Lisa to pick that exact moment to return his numerous calls.  He doesn't intend to pick up just in time to listen to Lisa's real opinions on his relationship with Sam.  Of course, good intentions never got a Winchester anywhere pretty.   

In retrospect, it could have gone worse.  At least, she doesn't call him a brother-fucker and hung up the phone.  Her words sting, but she could opt for something more vicious and it speaks volumes that she doesn't opt for the cruel option.  

 _“Yeah but I didn’t expect Sam to come back,"_ she snarls and, well, isn't that the heart of the issue?  

Honestly, he doesn't know what would've happened if Sam hadn't come back. Maybe, without Sam he could've pretended a little longer, lived some semblance of a normal life.  Only, he suspects it would've only taken a couple more months before he gave into the temptation of a well-placed bullet.      

He does know one thing.  If he had known his brother would walk through their door one day, he never would've whispered the truth to Lisa all those months ago.  He should know by now that confessions heard in the dark have a tendency to ruin what exists in the daylight.  

More than that, he knows that the second he opened his eyes and saw his brother any hope he had of a civilian, apple pie life was over.  Shattered in an instant.

Really, he doesn’t blame Lisa for running.  How could anyone compete with Sam?  Dean _needs_ his brother, needs him the same way cells need oxygen, a nd that need will never cease to usurp all other drives.  Full stop.  

Deep down, they both know Lisa never had a chance against his baby brother.  

She speaks sparsely over the phone, anger and frustration snapping in her voice.  He doesn't have to be the genius linguist in the family to hear the words she doesn't say.

 _"You two have the most unhealthy, tangled-up, crazy thing I have ever seen.”_  

Dean's a hell of a translator and there's so much contained in that single sentence.

She could accept his sick infatuation in the past tense.  A sad memory between two sad boys that were left alone and hungry in dirty motel rooms for most of their childhood.  She could accept that the man she loved lived a hard life and, as a result, felt abnormal things, _wrong_ things for his little brother.  

She couldn’t accept that twisted want in the present tense, didn't want it touching her life regardless of how she felt about Dean.   

And Dean knows she's right.  Knows that what he feels is strange and taboo and wrong, wrong, _wrong._

But, in another sense it's just the way they are.  Too close for brothers, different and at the same time one.  Too close for brothers, too close, too much, and yet never, ever enough.  Tangled-up, twisted together until it isn't clear where one ends and the other begins. Two sides of the same coin, two halves of the same piece and it has always been that way.  From the moment mom held up that blurry ultrasound, all the other options fell away for him.  No wife, no kids, just Sam.  That fuzzy black and white image promising a glimpse of his purpose.  This tangled-up, crazy thing may tear him apart over and over again, but he will never stop indulging it.  Regardless of Lisa, regardless of whatever damage may come of it he will never be able to stop.  He could no sooner will away breath or thought.  

And, sure, he can blame it on the hunter's life, blame it on the tragedy that seems to stalk them every step of the way.  That’s certainly part of it, their shattered childhood spent hungry and alone in the vain hope that John would come home just this once.  But he knows, knows in a way he can't quite explain, that this _thing_  would exist between them regardless of heaven and hell, regardless of their lives up to this point.

He suspects they would be this very same way even if they lived the apple pie life, tangled and twisted together by fate because that's just the way it is with them.  Sam and Dean, call and response, shadow and light.  Never one without the other.     

Of course, there’s no way to know, no possible way to tell if they are a result of nature or nurture.  He suspects both had a hand in it, nature drawing them together and nurture solidifying the bond with one simple phrase:  _Take care of Sammy_. 

Her words hurt, but it doesn't matter what Lisa spits at him over the phone, not really.  Sometime between pulling Sam out of that burning apartment and watching a knife slice through his baby brother's spine smooth as butter he'd accepted that Sam would always come first.  He can’t alter the all-consuming drive to _protect_ , _love_ , _want_ Sam.  As much as he cares for Lisa, she will never come before his blood and it isn't something he could help.     

So it figures that he gets the truth out of Lisa and just a steaming heap of bullshit from Sam.  

Instead of a heart to heart with his brother, the bastard _lies_ yet again.  And, to make matters worse, the crazy bitch goddess just confirms the worst of his suspicions.  _You’re not human_ , she hisses recoiling from Sam.   

That raises a thousand new questions and the lies just keep rolling off Sam’s tongue. 

By the end of the conversation, he doesn’t even know if should be using his brother’s name for the _thing_ that he’s been hunting with for weeks.  For all he knows it’s a creature or demon or angel that’s just using his brother as a meat suit and he feels the overwhelming urge to hurt whatever’s done this to his brother. 

He wants to inflict the pain that’s tearing at his chest as his baby brother confesses that he let Dean get turned.  As he confesses he hasn’t felt a thing since he got back. 

In some ways, it’s gratifying to hear that he was right not to trust Sam.  A relief to know, for certain, that something's wrong, not just PTSD or hell slipping through the cracks.  No, this falls in his wheelhouse and he can fix it, will fix it.  He’s done it again and again for Sam and nothing’s changed this time.

Right now though his brother looks at him and rage surges through as he meets hazel eyes.

“I need help, Dean,” he says and he looks earnest enough.  Almost a perfect replica of his Sammy.   

Lies make the tongue taste sweet, the truth goddess says. 

Sam’s tongue would’ve been a goddamn delicacy. 

He slams his fist into his brother’s face.  Again and again until his head lolls back, unconscious with blood coating his expressionless face.

In this moment, he looks astonishingly like the Sam that haunts his dreams, the version of his brother crumpled over bloodstained carpet.

He dismisses the thought before it can flare pity in his stomach and drops to his knees instead, running a hand through his hair.  

"Fuck, Sammy.  How am I supposed to fix you this time?"  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs at the end of S6:E6 "You Can't Handle the Truth"
> 
> Written while my little brother screamed "Senpai, NOTICE ME" in the background while rolling around on the floor. This once, I'm attributing any and all typos to him.


	22. Soulless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without a soul the world was two things: black and white.  
> Sam didn't really miss the other colors.

He wakes up bound to a chair with blue eyes peering down at him.  

It figures that Castiel always answers Dean.  Stupid  _profound bond_.  He shifts uncomfortably, testing his restraints experimentally.  

"What do you feel Sam?"

Before, he could have written you a saga on Sam Winchester's feelings.  Now he couldn't tell you if a gun was pressed to his temple.  

He doesn't know what he's feeling and he doesn't care.  He just wants out of the ropes that chafe at his wrists.    

He _does_ care when Castiel shoves a hand in his chest cavity and it feels like he’s yanking his intestines out through his belly button.  He wonders offhandedly if Dean still has an angel blade laying around and if he’d be particularly upset if he stuck Castiel with it.  The people who still feel emotions might have something to say about that though.     

“It’s his soul.  It’s gone.”

Oh.

He sees the look on Dean’s face, the way his eyes go from angry to devastated in a second. 

“Where is it?”

He asks the question even though they all know the answer 

“Still in the Cage with Michael and Lucifer.”

Sam’s back to fidgeting with the ties on his wrists, watching the shades of emotion that color Dean's face in an instant.  Grief's most prominent there, but he also recognizes something strangely akin to nausea and he hopes his brother doesn't throw up on the rug.  They still have to stay here tonight.  Next, he thinks maybe he should give Dean a refresher on knots, the ones on his wrists come undone almost too easily.  He thinks better of it when he sees the way his brother’s mouth twists, a hard glint shining in his grief stricken eyes.  Yet, for all that emotion, not an ounce of surprise and Sam must not have been pretending as well as he had thought.  So much for all that acting in middle school. 

Perhaps, he should be more concerned that he’s been walking around without a soul this entire time.  Except he’s not too worried about it and if that’s not proof of _soulless_ he doesn’t know what is.  He’s not really invested in the proceedings until he catches what Dean’s solution is.    

Dean wants to keep him under lock and key until they’ve retrieved the shiny, happy bits of little bro again.  Perhaps it's time to give up the ghost.  They know he's not Sam, not really.  He might as well embrace it.  

He makes it clear that’s not an option when he tosses his restraints at their feet.    

They don’t really have any choice but to take him along to the Campbells where they discover grandpa came back, soul intact.  It’s just Sam that’s missing what the good Lord gave him and, well, he could’ve told you that.  The old guy’s a bastard, but he does have a conscience.  One skewed by years steeped in blood and monsters hunted in the dark, but a conscience nonetheless. 

Dean insists they stay for the raid on the Alpha nest.  He says something about not trusting Samuel.  Sam thinks he just doesn't want to be alone with him right now.  

When Samuel abducts the Alpha instead of beheading it Sam tells the older hunter to keep the information from Dean.  His brother has a tendency to shoot ask questions later and as much as he likes to shoot, Sam can recognize the value of the asking part of the proceedings.  

Of course, Dean finds out anyway and he delivers an ultimatum on the side of the road.  Tell the truth or go to the Campbells.

He chooses Dean because when has it ever been a choice. He's not stupid.  Soul or not, he knows where his highest chance of survival lies.  Dean loves his brother enough to make sure that Sam sticks around until he finds a way to get back into the Cage and that damn sure means he's not going to let Sam die any time soon.

That's why he helps him track the Campbells, turns his back on the flip of a coin.  It's math, an arithmetic based on survival.     

It's easy enough to find the Campbell monster lockup, to interrogate the Alpha vampire.

Sam almost laughs when the Alpha offers him something the creature must think sounds enticing.  

"I could turn you.  You'd be the perfect monster."

Sam doesn’t want to be the perfect monster.  No, he wants to be the perfect hunter,  _is_ the perfect hunter.  Monsters are the bloody pulp he rinses from his boots after a long hunt.

When the King of Hell shows up he supposes he should be shocked.  Would be shocked, would be if he could still feel that is.

It's not shocking that Crowley's offering them a job before Dean can properly tell him to go fuck himself.  Sam's used to being pursued by Hell's finest.  He's practically catnip to demons.  

Luckily, the whole hostage situation turned impromptu job offer is derailed when the Alpha unsurprisingly breaks out.

That leaves just one monster for Sam and he takes any hunt on offer these days.

Samuel's trying to leave, moving to push past Sam.  

“Step aside boys unless you wanna shoot me."    

A bullet’s in the chamber before it can occur to him that Samuel’s probably being facetious.

Actually, scratch that, he realizes his grandfather’s not being serious when he tells them to step aside or put a bullet in his brain.  The old man just doesn’t expect him to do it is all. 

Sam doesn’t have a soul; apparently his grandfather doesn’t have a brain if he thinks Sam isn’t willing to take him up on that offer. 

It’s not that he’s hurt about the whole betrayal, though he never would have expected the old man to sell them out to Crowley of all people- or demons or whatever.  He just doesn’t think leaving the grumpy old bastard around will be anything more than a liability for him and Dean in the future. 

It’s more surprising that Dean stops him from shooting the bastard. 

He even protests.  Considers shooting him regardless of Dean's objection. 

But the way Dean’s looking at him tells him that shooting the old man would be frowned upon and he want to stay in big bro’s good graces, at least for the time being.  After all, he needs Dean.  For now.  

When they leave Crowley’s monster lockup they’re employees of the King of Hell and as far as Sam’s concerned it could be worse. 

In fact, he could be Dean who’s staring ahead at the road ashen faced as if someone's died. 

When they get to the motel Dean throws his duffel on the bed, doesn't even pause before he's heading out the door again.

“Going out.  Don't wait up.”  

He powers up his laptop to search for a new hunt, despite Dean's directive.

It’s not as if he sleeps these days.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs during the events of S6:E7 "Family Matters" 
> 
> Sorry for the infrequent updates guys!!! I just started Topamax (Dope-a-max) for my migraines and it makes it hard to write anything worth posting!


	23. Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam never came back.  
> Not the part that mattered.

Whiskey hangs heavy on his tongue and he wants to forget, needs to forget.  Wants, needs to ease the tight anxiety squeezing at his chest, if only for a moment so he can breathe.

Quiet permeates this no name bar on a weekday night, the only noise the clink of glasses and soft strains of Credence filtering over tinny jukebox speakers.

Apparently, Dean Winchester's the only one who needs to forget so desperately he's drowning in 80 proof at these lost hours of the am.   

“Listen, man.  We’ve gotta close up.  You gotta ride?”  The bartender’s voice shocks him out of his stupor, the rasping gravel of it full of a lifetime of grit and, yet, the man looks almost sympathetic when Dean blearily glances up.  He supposes even a seasoned bartender like this one would pity someone wearing his expression right now if he looks even half as wrecked as he feels. 

“It’s alrigh’,” he slurs, swaying softly as he slides from his rickety stool.  He slaps a wad of cash on the sticky bar, leaves a generous tip.  The drinks weren’t watered down and the man hadn’t tried to make conversation.  That’s something Dean more than appreciates at the moment.  “I can walk.”

The man frowns at him, more apparent concern clouding his weathered features, “Look, I can call you a cab.  Don’t want you gettin' hurt.” 

Dean snorts, waves him off, “Trust me.  ‘m the most dangerous thing out there.”  He puffs up proudly, jabbing a thumb into his chest.  It lands more adjacent to his shoulder but that shouldn't disprove his point.

The other man’s eyebrows steadily travel towards his hairline as he nods slowly.  “If you say so, kid.”  He collects the cash, shaking his head as Dean stumbles toward the door.  “Get home safe, son.”

"Quit yer nagging, Bobby," he grumbles and even though his brain says that's not quite right, he doesn't correct himself as he pushes through the door. 

The night air feels cool and Dean hums in contentment as it brushes over his too hot skin.  The walk will do him some good, more time before he has to see Sam.

It's not often he seeks out time away from his brother.  In the past, he didn't need to.  Sure, outside forces forced him away from Sam: Dad, Stanford, those winged dickbags.  Worst of all his baby brother pushed him away sometimes and, god, if that didn't make his heart twist in his chest even now.  Of course, none of that applies now.  Now he'll take any excuse to find a few seconds away from Sam.  He's running from the man that sits beside him in the Impala, the one who isn't really his brother.  Not in the ways that matter.  Hiding away in bars with whiskey sticky on his fingers and burning down his throat.  

Not that it really helped.  No survivable amount of liquor can cloud the pain that shreds through his chest when he thinks about the cold, emotionless man that's replaced his baby brother.  There's a specific name for that pain, a chronic ache that he's so very weary of: grief, clutching and choking and suffocating.  Every time he thinks he's moved past it, he's discovered the Winchester version of the seven steps, six of which seem to heavily feature borderline alcoholism, something slams into him and leaves in fucking pieces on the pavement.      

Rain begins to fall in the chill air and even through his whiskey haze his heart sinks.  The rain's never agreed with him, not since that night that sparked all this crap in the first place.  And right now, he's too drunk to fight back the memory it sparks in the deep, dark places he tries so desperately to forget. 

It's still his worst memory.  One that belongs to him and him alone, and God, it was the first time he ever felt this sick, aching, incurable grief that haunts his waking hours and dreams in equal measure.  

His kid brother's twenty fourth birthday and it should've been one of their good days, one of the best days.  He remembers how excited he'd been, like a kid again.  He was going to give Sammy a real birthday for the first time ever.  Bought tickets to that one amusement park they'd been to as kids and everything, and maybe it wasn't the best place but it was their memory, one their few and far between good memories and sentimental value meant something to a Winchester even if you would've had to drag that confession out with a pair of pliers and a hot poker.

And then he'd disappeared in that diner because Dean, selfish, stupid, fuck-up Dean, wanted a slice of pie.

Dean likes to say he forgets things.  Likes to pretend he's forgetful and absentminded because it makes it easier to deny.  It makes easier to deny moments hunts went wrong and food got spread too thin and the only two people he ever gave a damn about tore each other apart and he was left staring at the filthy motel room carpet with his heart aching in his chest.  Truth is, he has a damn near perfect memory, especially for the bad moments.    

It's his worst memory and he remembers every single moment in scarlet stained, copper scented technicolor.

Those terrible hours spent searching for Sam, until, finally,  _finally_ he was running towards his brother, mud squelching under his feet and, god, wasn't his Sammy so beautiful.  

The first warm floods of relief, sweet on his tongue.  His blood singing as his brother called back to him, just the way it had always been ever since his brother's tongue had learned how to form words.  

_"Sam."_

_"Dean."_

Then the fast shadow, Dean not fast enough, not good enough to protect Sammy and he forgot the first rule, _sometimes monsters are human_ , because that's a kid, a _human_ kid, sticking a knife in his brother's back and he's the worst monster he's ever faced.  He's the monster that's going to take Sammy from him and, oh God, oh no, no, no,  _no-_

_" **Sammy!"**_

He remembers thinking the world should have frozen around them in that moment; his universe collapsing in on itself as his brother collapsed in the mud.  Instead the world just kept spinning as his thoughts spun out of control.  

He caught Sam then like some vicious parody of when they were kids and his brother's clumsy legs stumbled over motel furniture, catching up his tiny giggling body before he could spill across the carpet.  Back then when he failed he could ghost his lips over the bruise, the scrape and whisper,  _"All better, Sammy.  De will make it all better."_

His brother's conscious and he tries to tell him De will make it all better,   _We're gonna patch you up._ Sammy's not talking, liquid in his arms, like he physically can't hold himself up and he knew the words spilling from his mouth meant nothing as he pressed his fingers to the pulse point in his brother's neck he once dreamed about tasting with his tongue.  

He felt the moment the soft flutter of Sam’s pulse no longer beat out under his fingertips.  Twenty-four years he spent monitoring that heartbeat, twenty-four years as one half of a whole and then that soft tattoo stopped.  Even now, he remembers the thick sludge of mud soaking through his jeans even as his palms soaked up the the hot gush of blood spurting between the sprawl of his fingers.  It'd taken only a single numb moment to realize that he wasn't clinging to his brother anymore; no, he was clinging to his brother's corpse, a beautiful, meaningless shell  gone limp, pliant and lifeless in his arms.  Sick realization set to the background of pouring rain and the heavy copper scent of his brother's blood spilling into the dirt.  Sam was just  _gone_  and that couldn't be right.  When everything else died, when everyone else burned and he had nightmares about funeral pyres for months, Sam was still there, complaining about the music in the passenger seat.  Except, that's not what happened that time.  Instead, he was left clutching an empty shell in the rain, screaming a wordless prayer to the angels his mother promised listened to him.  It was the only lie his mother had ever told him.   

Of course, maybe it was because he didn't do it right.  Maybe the angels didn't listen because the only prayer he ever learned was _Sammy_   and what he meant was _**mine**_.  It was the only prayer Dean would ever need for his sweet twisted religion and if he whispered it into the dark as he watched his brother sleep and laughed it as his brother sang along to Bon Jovi and moaned it as he spilled over his fist in the shower then it didn't matter if it was the only prayer.  It meant a thousand things and then again only one: keep him safe, keep him happy, please, God, please let me keep him.  

For all those raw prayers, those prayers wrought with tortured want and unabiding need, no one came to save Sam, no one ever did.

Sam hadn't weighed a thing as he'd carried him to the car and for once he hadn't cared if someone got mud in the backseat.   _"Get her as dirty as you want, baby boy.  You just clean her up when you get up, deal?"_ He'd whispered it, into the shell of his ear and it was too cold and his brother hadn't grimaced at him, hadn't muttered _jerk._  It's too quiet without the soft sound of Sam's breathing and maybe that's why he sings it.  Maybe it's because he associates her soft voice, lulling him to sleep when he was afraid and he doesn't want Sammy to be afraid.  He doesn't care that his voice cracks and wavers over the notes of "Hey Jude".

Carrying his brother in the middle of the night and it felt like a thousand others.   _"Dean, take your brother to bed.  I've got to head out a bit."_ And he didn't tuck him in, not this time.  No, he laid him out, watched him, so still and quiet and he wanted to scream, wanted to shake his brother awake, except that wasn't an option, not really.  His brother was so beautiful, even like this, even if this was just the shell left behind, sharp cheekbones, perfect skin, too long hair that just meant he was too fucking young to die with a knife in his spine and why the fuck did Dean ever pull him away from his chance at a normal life.  

No one came to save Sam that night and Dean didn't expect it because that was Dean's job,  _that one job._ He’d found his way to a crossroads numbly, grief crushing into his lungs and his brother's name beating through his veins.  It was almost funny one year to the day later how the sensation of hellhounds shredding through his chest mimicked the grief shredding his chest as he scrabbled through the gravel, so very eager to damn himself for the love that thrummed through him from the moment his mother whispered, _"_ _Your baby brother Sam."_

Of course, a hellhound couldn't come close to the agony of Sam’s heart fluttering to a stop.  

When he lost his mom, his dad he thought he’d understood grief.  He thought he'd learned how to mourn and grieve and suffer loss.It only took once to learn no pain could ever compare to losing Sam.  He still has those two tickets.  Saved them like the masochistic bastard he is.  Reminds himself that the first time his brother died in his arms in some different life he took him back to that roller coaster where he'd quietly promised  _"I'll never let go"_ a lifetime ago.  

Rain falls cold and insistent around him as he stumbles drunkenly down the road of this town he'll leave behind tomorrow and he can't forget the reason for the whiskey on his breath, the iron grief suffocating his lungs.  

It only took once to teach him no pain could compare to losing Sam.  That bitch named fate liked to reinforce her lessons.     

As much as it shattered him to feel his brother's life flicker out beneath his fingertips, he'd bartered his worthless soul for the perfect tattoo of Sam's heartbeat.  He'd bought something priceless with a kiss and he would never, ever say he regretted that decision.  

The second time wasn't his worst memory, but oh was it a close competitor.  

It was a slow build of fear, the slow realization that Sam was going to lose himself to Lucifer or lose himself to the Cage and Dean honestly didn't know which one was worse.  

He remembers wanting to press his brother against the side of the Impala and kiss away the fear clouding his eyes outside the apartment building, lick the taste of a stranger's blood out his mouth, leave only the taste of  _Dean_ on his tongue and, god, maybe it would root him to himself when he let Lucifer in.  

He didn't kiss him.  Didn't even touch him really and if he could change one decision in his life it's that one.  He wouldn't steal away that innocent trust in his brother's eyes, but he would sure as hell let his brother know exactly how adored he was on this earth.  How, maybe Dean didn't really pray, but he had a religion and his blasphemous worship of dimples and hazel eyes sat just fine with him.  

Sam said yes and it hurt to see his brother leave those eyes.  Almost as if he died again and Dean would have collapsed at Lucifer's knees and begged for death if he hadn't known that his brother was still in there struggling for power.  

Then the cemetery, the battle royale and  _"I'm here, I'm not leaving you, Sammy"_ and he didn't mind when Lucifer smashed his face into pulverized calcium and burst blood vessels.  Didn't mind the way his teeth dug into his cheeks until he tasted copper and all he could think about was mud and spinal cords and crossroads.  

He watched the moment Sam came back to himself and it felt oh so similar to the moment Dean had seen him alive for the first time in that abandoned house and yet he knew it was the same as the sensation of his heartbeat faltering beneath his callused fingertips.  Either way he lost him forever.    

A simple toss of those rings, the opening of the Cage, and Dean wanted to close his eyes, knew he should because this moment would be one he never, ever forgot.  

He used to watch Sammy sleep in his crib as a baby, watched him read his books curled up on the couch, watched him run through motel parking lots.  Watched him board that bus to Stanford, watched him fall prey to the darkness in his blood, watched him blush prettily after those pretty girls while jealousy ate up his heart.   He wasn't going to stop watching him now, not ever.  He wasn't going to spare himself pain, not when Sammy needed him and he tried to say that a thousand things with his eyes, hoped desperately that their silent language hadn't died out over the years.

_"It'_ _s okay, baby boy.  It'll all be okay.  It'll all fade away and I'll still be there.  I'll always be there, even when you can't remember why they call you Sammy."_

So much, too much to communicate through gaze alone and yet Sam nodded as if he understood, his gaze something simpler but something no less meaningful.

_"Dean."_

_"Sam."_

Then his eyes snapped shut and Dean couldn't begrudge him that, even if he'd wanted to see those hazel eyes just a moment longer.  Sam didn't want to see the drop as he fell.  His baby, so damn scared and then fucking Michael grabbed at him and made the fear so much worse.

Sammy'd won of course.  Yanking that angelic dickhead into the Cage right beside him.  It did mean Dean got that last glance of Sam's face he'd wished for and this time his eyes were wide open.  He needed to learn to stop wishing for things already.

His baby brother was so brave.  His baby brother was so much stronger and braver than he could ever be and in that moment his eyes were glazed over with terror so abject it froze the blood in his veins.      

Watching the Pit swallow his brother, that fear clouding his eyes, that _terror_ and for the first time in his life there was absolutely nothing he could do to ease his little brother's pain.  Even if every one of Alistair's expert blows and slices were magnified a thousand times over and hit him in a single instant, it couldn’t begin to compare to that pain.  _Nothing_ , except perhaps the too hot solution of his brother's spinal fluid and blood gushing in his fingers could compare to the abject horror of that moment.  

He let go.  Let go and let his brother fall into that pit.  It's just another promise Dean's broken again and again.

Oh, he wanted to search out Sam in his own way.  Almost had those first few days, cold steel of his Colt clenched between his teeth as he sobbed out his version of a prayer  _SamSamSamSam-_    

Instead he spent months and months with Lisa and Ben muddling through the grief, in the fucking agony of his brother's absence.

Living for shadowy dreams of his brother bleeding and broken on filthy motel carpet, as he whispered what he'd wanted to say all along.   _"It's okay, baby boy.  I'm here."_

Brushing hands and lips over the abused flesh of his brother's body, trying so damned hard to keep him rooted in that fucking dream world and he didn't know what kind of fucked up person he was, having those dreams again and again, intent on locking some fucked up imagining of his brother in the hellish dreamscape.  It was all he had left though, all he had left of Sam, maybe all he would ever have again and he would be damned if he gave it up.  Maybe he had failed the prime directive in real life,  _Take care of Sammy,_ but he could try his best to carry it out in the dreams.  He could try to comfort whatever version he had left of Sam and if it was selfish of him to cling so tightly to the ghosts he burned with salt clinging to his fingertips, well, Dean Winchester was never a selfless man.  He had his weaknesses, a weak spot, and the things he would do for his little brother scared him.  They terrified him, just never enough to stop.

Losing Sam a second time should have been enough.  Fate must have some kinky thing for cliches, cause third times the charm certainly applies here.

When he'd opened his eyes after all those months with Lisa and saw Sam it was as if a weight had been lifted and he could breathe again.  As if he was whole again. 

And as time had gone on the grief had started to take root again, grief as some part of him realized the person that came back wasn’t the brother that had taken that fall. 

Now he’s standing in the dark, whiskey thrumming through his veins and the grief’s back in full force.  Has been from the moment Castiel said those awful words that Dean had suspected.

“His soul’s gone.”

It’s no different than when he’d held his brother’s body in the pouring rain, fingers sticky with blood and his throat raw with screaming his brother’s name.  He’s got a body, got the girly auburn hair and longb lean muscles.  For all intents and purposes the man is Sam Winchester the same way that corpse was; physically, his brother.  And, yes, his brother was beautiful.  But, that didn’t matter when his laugh sounded false and he smiled viciously and he let innocent people die.

He understands why his brain's paying homage to his worst moments, all featuring his dead brother.  It's like Sam's died all over again.   

He blinks and by some miracle, he's made his way to the motel.  It's a true testament to Winchester training that he manages the keys and gets the lights on once he's inside.  Honestly, he can’t really say he’s surprised the room's empty, but there’s a note on the table and Dean crosses over on unsteady legs to pick it up. 

**Went out.  Caught new case.  Be back with details. S.W.**

And isn’t that so very fucking true to this new version of Sam.  No explanation, short, succinct and fuck if it doesn’t even look like his brother’s handwriting.  It’s too neat, not frazzled and distracted like when Sam leaves notes normally and that’s it. 

Grief gives way to rage and he grabs the closest item to him, sends it flying into the wall.  It’s a vase apparently and it shatters with a satisfying crash.  He picks up one of the cheap chairs and slams it into the wall, feeling the weight on his chest lessen a bit as the plaster gives way.  A heavy boot connects with the table and he’s probably going to get the cops called on him but he’s so far past giving a shit. 

Everything, this whole goddamn fight, has been worth it for Sammy.  And he thought that maybe, just maybe all that sacrifice had been repaid with the his brother coming back to him.  And sure, he’d suspected that something was wrong but to learn that his brother was soulless, that his soul was still-

Bile rises up and it’s not just bile.  He doubles over, the contents of his stomach splashing on the shag carpet as he remembers exactly where his baby brother is. 

His brother’s still in hell, still Lucifer's plaything.  He vomits again for good measure, because with the events of today he’d forgotten that little detail.  That all this time he’d been running around with RoboCop, his real brother has been used as Satan's pincushion and he wonders if some part of him knew.  He wonders if that's why he never stopped having the dreams.  He only prays his dreams don't match Sam's reality. 

He collapses to his knees, next to the foul smelling acid contents of his stomach and he sits there. 

Grieving again for his brother because he’d grieved him once when he’d fallen in the mud.  Grieved him a second time when he'd fallen in the pit.  To learn that his brother hadn’t really come back at all was a slap in the face. 

He doesn’t really notice when the door creaks open, he’s too far gone and he doesn't hear the soft snort of disapproval. 

It’s silent for a long moment and there’s soft footsteps before large warm hands lift him up by his armpits. 

Dean just lets himself be dragged to the nearest bed, lets the hands unlace his boots and slide off his jeans.  He opens his eyes blearily and it’s Sam, or the Robocop edition at least, pulling back the covers staring at him with mild amusement. 

“I thought you were going out,” he mumbles as the bigger man pulls up the covers and settles them around Dean.  Sam shrugs.

“I did.  Didn’t pan out,” he’s turning around, grimacing as he sidesteps the puke on the floor.  "I see you had fun.” 

Dean grunts in reply, listens as Sam shuffles around the room, cleaning up the room and it doesn’t occur to him until a moment later what the other man just did.

“Why’d you just do that?  You could’ve left me on the floor,” he mumbles drowsily. 

Sam sighs heavily.

He pauses a moment, stops in his movements.  "Thought you'd be better company if you slept in a bed.  Besides you'll be a shit partner if you're tired."

As the heavy alcohol slumber drags him under he knows his time for mourning needs to end here.  If Fate thinks she can teach him a lesson by taking Sam away from him the bitch should know Dean Winchester never learned a lesson he didn't want to.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs after the events of S6:E7 "Family Matters"
> 
> Sorry it took me so long to update guys! I had a lot of stuff going on in school and my personal life. If you'd like to know more just ask. I'll be back on a regular updating schedule from now on and I'll inform you guys if I need to take a hiatus.


	24. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn't feel the bond anymore.  
> Instead his head is full of stolen memories.

_“I’m not your brother.”_

He says it sitting across from Dean at that picnic table and he can see the devastation in the other man's eyes but he owes him the truth.  He owes him that much when all the emotion, all that made him the man that Dean loved has been swept away. 

But he remembers what it was to be that man and it's almost as if with all the debris of emotion cleared away the memories are clearer than ever before, pristine snapshots of his past.  It's all there.  In his head.  All the shared moments of Sam and Dean Winchester, all that pain and joy twisted up and if he wants to he can reach in and spread the memories out like photographs on the carpet.  Maybe he's not Sam Winchester anymore, but he still has his memories, down to the last detail and if he could still feel it would be enough to make him uneasy, like some kind of voyeur peeking in on someone's past.

Sometimes they come to them when he least expects it, they rise up like debris on the waves, sudden flashes of image and sound from a life that no longer belongs to him.  Sometimes he seeks them out to remind himself what it was to be human, why he wants his soul back.

He feels like a stranger peeking in, but he watches Sam Winchester live his life like he has a thousand times over the past year and a half anyway.  He watches because he it's a reminder of what it was to be a good man, a man with a conscience.  A reminder of why he needs a soul.   

Motes of dust drifting through the sunlight as Dean laughs, _"Come on, Sammy, you got it!"_ and the burn of foreign muscles as he's toddling for the first time across a dirty rug, only to fall into his brother's waiting arms.  A kiss pressed against his forehead and a smiling voice, _"Good job, baby."_  

 _"De,"_ tripping over his tongue for the first time and his brother's face lighting up, a smile scrunching up his face vibrant and pure and right.  And he knows even then he'll say anything to see that smile.

Shared beds from the very beginning, warm bodies tangled together under scratchy sheets and in the dark the alcohol labored snoring of their father in the bed a world away.  Silently reaching out hands to entwine sweaty fingers, tied up in one another even in dreams.

Dreams in the night that burn and Sam wakes up screaming for the pretty blond stranger with no voice.  The dreams come to him more often than not and dad gets mad sometimes, but De holds him to his chest in the dark and sings about making it better and he does.  He always does.  His brother sings him into a sleep far away from a blue nursery that sparked not just one fire but a lifetime of burning inside and out.  

A dingy yellow bus takes his brother away to that first day to school, leaves him alone with his dad crouched over that ratty old journal as he waits anxiously peaking over the edge of the window on tiptoes.  Dean says he doesn't like it, doesn't like the other kids or the teacher, but he quietly shows his books to his baby brother.  Sam's not old enough to read yet, but he likes the letters, the squiggly markings and bright colors and when the times comes it's Dean who painstakingly teaches Sam how to read.    

There's a book that Sam likes in the library when he first goes off to school, six and stubby fingered and when Dean sees his eyes light up he smuggles it away from the hook nosed librarian in his threadbare thrift-shop backpack.  Reads it out loud every night with the funny voices and Sam likes the one about Sir Galahad best because it reminds him of his De, pure and brave and right.

He gets sick, really sick for the first time and dad's _"_ _Winchester's don't get sick"_ doesn't mean much when he has the flu, hot and sticky underneath the sheets.  Dean brings him tomato and rice soup, _homemade,_ Sam whispers awestruck because it's some mystical word that's only in the Winchester vocabulary in vagaries.  Dean won't quite meet his eyes as he goes to clean up the tiny kitchenette in their motel room.  Maybe it's because that word used to mean something to his big brother.   

Running through a hot parking lot, _"You're it"_ and it's a curb that sends his knees flying towards the asphalt just like a thousand others have but Dean's there in a second.       

 _"_ _I'm fine, De.  Stop it."_    Indignant, too old to be babied but they both know he secretly loves it.  They both do.   

 _"_ _I'll make it all better, Sammy."_ His brother's lips lips ghosting over raw flesh, a mother's job, but so much better when it's Dean's pink bow of a mouth pressing kisses to all the bruises and hurts the world inflicts on his skin.  Always the kiss before he's led back to the motel for a band-aid and those familiar fingers, gentle and sticky with Neosporin.  

Like riding a bike they say and neither of them can, so one summer Dean steals one from across town.  Teaches himself in the middle of the night when he thinks Sam's asleep.  He's not of course, watches the way Dean falls tilts and shows up with bruises and scrapes in the morning for his trouble.  When at last he's taught himself, he plops Sam down on the saddle and Sam glows with it, the summer sun beating on his back as Dean rests his hand on his lower back, no training wheels required.  He learns in three days, drags it out eight because he likes feeling Dean's hand on his sweat slick skin.  They steal a second bike, blue to his red, and race across the asphalt, until they have to abandon the pair of bikes in favor of a pair of rugaru in North Dakota.

Sometimes the money gets stretched out as thin as Sam is and it makes for a what should be the worst Christmas yet.  Except there's a dollar store next door, open for some reason Christmas day, and Dean whispers _"any ten presents"_ pulling out a ten dollar bill he must have been saving for a long time for exactly this reason.  He laughs when Sam uses all ten on bags of plastic army men.  They spend the rest of the day choreographing intense battles and that's where their dad finds them, the dusk light pouring over them with the sound of _"A Christmas Story"_ in the background.  They play with them for years until the last of them somehow end up permanently stuck in the Impala and Dean declares proudly it's just part of her charm.

He learns everyone's not as kind as his Dean as he gets older.  He won't fight back, doesn't want to look like even more of a freak and his clothes are faded and worn, he's too skinny.  The first time Dean finds him crying on the motel bed with a black eye he holds him for a long time before asks for a name.  In retrospect, Sam shouldn't have given him one.  When Dean returns he tilts his head up with bloody knuckles and presses a kiss to Sam's forehead whispering, _"Those fuckers aren't worth it, baby boy."_

Tearing down that soccer field as Dean screams, _"Take 'em out, Sammich!"_ with the smell of grass in his nose.  When he wins that trophy, his only trophy, Dean beams up at him amongst the crowd of moms and dads, and it's okay that dad's not there because Dean is and he's so proud of him.  Dean's always the one in the crowd, Dean's always been the one in the crowd smiling up at him and that's okay.    

That first dream where Dean presses kisses to his knees smiling up at him, _"I'll make it better, Sammy.  I'll make it good for you, Sammy."_  Except he doesn't stop at the knees, presses kisses up his legs, the hollows of his thighs, and it's Dean's name on his lip's when he wakes sweats sticky with come.  Dreams that burn him up inside without a single flame.       

Wrestling, the floor coming up fast, _"Easy there, tiger."_   He loses those matches a lot, just to feel the warm weight of his brother looming over him.  They end the same way more often than not, frustrated showers with a hand on his cock praying Dean didn't feel the hard on in his sweats.  Hard from adrenaline he tells himself.  He tells himself that a lot.  

He doesn't know why he asks Stacy out to the Valentine's dance, he doesn't even know how to dance.  Of course, when he mentions it Dean takes it upon himself to remedy the problem and he learns how to dance to Dean's off key rendition of Foreigner as his brother awkwardly twirls him around their motel room.  He blushes a dark red as he presses against his brother and pretends he's embarrassed.  It becomes something different when Dean's voice slips into "Stairway to Heaven",  _"Overrated, Sammy"_ , but it's beautiful in that rasping baritone and dim light, his brother's voice low and soft, a thousand unspoken things in his ear.  

A thousand moments of brotherhood, childhood.    

Watching his brother, knowing that it's more than that, more than they will ever be able to describe with words, at least on his end. 

Moments when he swears that it's not just him.  Hot July days spent in amusement parks, roman candles clung to with the last vestiges of childhood, marijuana smoked on the edge swimming holes, _"show me baby"_ whispered in dark motel rooms.  Gone in an instant, corners just peeking over the edge but he can swear it's not just him.

They are brothers.  They are something more.  They are everything.    

But it's an everything that he can never have and it's something that he won't reach out and touch for fear of getting burned so he turns and runs at the first opportunity.  Turns out he gets burned anyway.  

Screaming at his dad, shutting that door, throwing down a match on that gasoline soaked bridge.  He stands in the yard of that rented, ramshackle house and it's Dean's rough voice that sounds out behind him,   _"I can give you a ride."_

They're sitting in the parking lot of the bus station and he shouldn't say it, but he's an addict.  Already an addict, it's just Dean Winchester he craves on his tongue instead of the sweet copper drip of blood.   _"You can come with me, Dean."_    Supposedly running and yet here he was, begging for a fix.   

 _"And you can stay, Sammy."_   

Boarding that bus, black paint and shiny chrome illuminated under the soft yellow street lights in the distance, tears in his eyes with his entire future stretching out in front of him.  An entire past in the classic car parked less than a hundred feet away and if the bus doesn't move soon he'll run backwards, towards his past.  

They are everything and they are impossible.

That Greyhound bus takes him off to his future and he remembers that yellow school bus taking his big brother away from him so many years ago.  Except he's not coming home at the end of that day, he's never going to tell Dean he preferred him to his new teachers, his new friends. Instead he ran fast and hard and he never really stopped.  

Memories of Stanford, blurred and distorted except for the pretty blonde girl with a snarky wit that fills the ache in his chest just a little bit.    

 _"Easy there, tiger."_    A shadow moving through his new life and it's one that he should've recognized immediately, but he used to see that face in the shadows often enough and it takes a long moment to convince himself that this one's real.  

The dreams of fire come smashing into reality, burning up his new future pinned to the ceiling.  

It's like he's a kid all over a again, fire scorching his dreams each night as he lends his voice to Jess' mouth locked in a silent scream.  It's always his brother's hands bringing him back to the real world in the darkness and sometimes he slips up, _"De"_ , slipping out in a sleep's slur and his brother never teases, just whispers,  _"I'm here, Sammy."_  He never bothers to correct him.

A year of searching, of chasing after the man that dragged them away from any real semblance of normalcy and it ends the way their story began.  It ends the way it ended for their mom and Jess, the way it will end for Sam and Dean, for any hunter really.  It's Dean who lights the match, burning the last family they will ever know and that fire is something that will keep them awake for months.  Some nights they even bother trying, just pass a bottle of whiskey back and forth silently waiting for the darkness to pass into the relief of daylight.

There's times when he still wants to reach out and take what isn't his, damn the consequences.  There's a night he almost surges up to kiss him, almost gives in to the temptation in that bed and breakfast when he's so scared of the darkness inside of him that he whispers _"Promise me"_ in an alcohol fueled haze and everything in him wants to pull his brother down into that bed.

He thinks he's going to die in a locked room,  _"I'm not leaving you"_ and Croatoan paints the walls as surely as fear paints his veins.  It's almost alright that they're going to go down together.  That Sam Winchester so long ago believed in a heaven and he was going to make sure he and Dean never fought their way through the blood soaked dark again.

He dies in a mud soaked field instead, a knife twisted up in his spinal column and his brother's name on his tongue.  It's cold and he feels the blood dripping down his back as his vision goes black, but he can hear Dean's voice  _"It's okay, Sammy, we're gonna patch you up"_ and he can almost believe him before it all fades away and he loses even Dean.  

His brother sells his soul with a kiss and gets a year in return.  That year has too many memories to count, because he tries to treasure every last one of them.  They're all tinged with the soft pale grey of grief.

Dean in that ridiculous prison orange.  Their first Christmas in years.  His brother finally teaching him how to repair his precious Impala.

Then there's that horrible night.  His twenty-fifth birthday and he never liked his birthdays anyway, but Dean's chest is flayed open, bloody and torn scarlet flesh that he's sobbing into, but Dean's not waking up this time and no deal's bringing him back this time.  

He buries him alone, that very next morning.  It's hard work digging a grave by himself, it's been a long time since he did one himself.  He tries not to think about it too much.  He takes the amulet before he closes the coffins, his lips brushing over the shell of his brother's ear as he whispers a tear stained promise, _"I'll hold onto this for you."_

By the time Dean comes back it's too late for Sam, there's too many new memories without Dean.  Dark memories, red stained memories.  Memories soaked in demon blood and shadows, he craves Ruby's sweet iron pulse like he used to crave Dean and, God, he still loves his brother, still wants him, but it's this blurred, distorted thing all tangled up in shadows.   _I did it for you, Dean,_ he wants to say.  He sacrificed himself to save Dean and he failed.  He failed and he burned up all the good inside himself to do it.  

He betrays Dean over and over again, until it becomes second nature, the shadows seeping in, distorting him.  Maybe he failed Dean, but he wants vengeance for the torn flesh of his brother's chest, knows it's ironic how far he'll go to get it, but he's sure Dean will forgive him in the end.  He'll forgive him for the demon taste of copper on his lips.

In the end he walks out and leaves Dean in a bed of glass.  He walks out and plunges the world into chaos.

In the end he's the one who must end it and when he jumps into that Cage it's a memory distorted with fear and pain.  

Sam Winchester's last memory is Dean's eyes, peeking out from his mangled, swollen face communicating,  _"It's okay baby boy"._

Those memories are Sam Winchester.  Not the man sitting across from Dean Winchester at that picnic table.   

 _"I'm not your brother."_  

Sure he’s using the man’s brain, but he knows that Sam, the old Sam, would be ashamed of the man that resides in his skin these days.

Sam Winchester would be ashamed of the man who would take a shot with an innocent woman in the crosshairs.  Sam Winchester would be ashamed of the man who doesn’t care whether or not Lisa and Ben Braeden live.  Sam Winchester would be ashamed of the man who doesn’t care about the man sitting across from him at that picnic table.   

They’re not brothers anymore, not brothers except in the most literal sense.  Family don’t end with blood, but it doesn't necessarily start with it either.  Not family, but partners working towards a common cause.  Sam needs to get his soul back, Dean needs to get his brother back.  Sam can’t even put a finger on why he wants his soul back.  He likes being free of the pain, the guilt, likes feeling no remorse.  Hell, he likes fucking strangers without consequences. 

It’s the emptiness that bothers him.  It’s not a feeling really, not an emotion.  More like he’s come untethered and the longer it goes on, the more he drifts away from the man in those memories.  It's because he’s disconnected from Dean and if he could feel it, he knows that it would ache and burn and rage inside him until he couldn’t stand the pain.    

He needs his soul back because those memories are stolen moments of someone else's history and he owes that man his life back.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs at the end of S6:E8 "All Dogs Go to Heaven"


	25. Suffering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A soul entailed suffering.  
> Some things are worth suffering for.

Sam’s staring blankly out the passenger window and Dean hates this.  Hates the way this silence feels deep in his bones.

Back before the Cage they hadn’t talked the whole way, hell sometimes they'd sit in all day silences, the practiced comfort of it filling up a silent cab.  Back then it’d been an easy silence, one born of long years spent living in one another’s space, breathing one another’s air.

Now there’s nothing to say, nothing to talk about.  Strangers driving down the road as the sunset sky bleeds to black.

Sam didn’t take the Leprechaun’s deal for his soul.    

 _“When’s a deal ever been a good thing, Dean?_ ”

Dean had barely held back what he wanted to say. 

 _My deal.  The deal for you._ His soul for Sam's and surely his brother knows that.  Knows that Dean will never regret that, even with the apocalypse it sparked.  

That deal was more than _good_ , it was everything.  He’d held Sam in his arms after, felt the steady thump of his baby brother’s heart and whoosh of air in his lungs and, in that moment, he knew he’d made the right decision.        

A bargain.  His soul for Sam’s was hardly a fair trade, his was worth so much less than Sam’s.  But if they were willing to take it, one last year in return for Sam growing fat and happy with a wife and kids then he would rot in the pit for eternity.  He would rot gladly.

Of course, that’s not how it had gone down.  That deal, sealed with a kiss so many years ago had turned sour and Sam-.  Well, Sam hadn’t exactly gone off to live the apple pie life like Dean wanted.  No, he’d shacked up with a demon, spent his time obsessing over getting his brother back.  

Dean would make the deal again in a second.  

Regardless, he’s sitting next to whatever shell of a brother he has left, his Baby purring under him and he hates the uneasy silence between them.  It leaves too much time for him to think.  For him to remember and mourn and curse the day he ever let Sam step foot in Detroit. 

He thinks about how much Sam would’ve liked their last case.  A smile threatens to quirk his lips.  Yeah, geeky Sam obsessed with Star Wars would’ve loved all the weird UFO references.  He probably would’ve been stoked about the whole business.  Up until the fairies.  Fucking fairies and their King Oberon. 

At the very least Sam wouldn’t have let him get abducted and then fallen into bed with some hippie chick that smelled like she hadn’t showered in a week.  He would’ve searched for Dean all night, consumed with guilt for letting Dean go out alone in the first place.  Not that Dean thinks his brother needs any added guilt, but still- that type of thing bruises a man's ego.  

This Sam doesn’t give a shit what happens to Dean, no matter how much he tries to pretend otherwise.  In a way, Dean thinks the other man feels strangely indebted to the person he was before the Cage and that's the only reason this dead-eyed approximation of his brother sits next to him now.  Past that fragile thread of connection there's nothing real between them.  It's a business transaction; Sam needs him in order to get his soul back, Dean needs his brother. 

Sam doesn’t care about Dean and he’s the world to Dean. 

What's worse, Dean’s terrified that Sam doesn’t really want his soul back and the thought tears at his chest.  Leading the horse to water and all that.  If the man next to him changes his mind, he’ll never get his brother back.  If he’s really being honest, Sam doesn’t have any reason to help him out.  He feels just fine without his soul, seems to _enjoy_ himself even and there's no denying he’s a better hunter for it.  A soul means all sorts of extra weight on him that he’d never have to put up with again.    

_"A soul equals suffering."_

He knows that, knows that better than anyone.  He's stood witness to every moment of his baby brother's pain over and over again, breaking every single promise he'd made to that little boy with hazel eyes and a dimpled smile.  Knows there's a thousand moments of pain etched into that soul and he can't exactly blame this new Sam for being reluctant to take up that weight.  He's seen all the pain from the beginning.  Hell, he's shared in it most of it and he can't blame anyone who's lived this life for wanting to set down the burden.    

The fire blazing, flames licking down blue walls _"Take your brother outside as fast as you can"_ and their mother was gone in an instant.  Their home lost to them forever and isn't that what Sam always wanted most?  What he would never be able to give him?  They didn't live under a roof they could call their own ever again.  Instead he would carry his brother from one home to another on a steel chassy, always flying from one place to the next on asphalt roads.

Knowing there was a quiet thrumming loneliness that ran through his brother's veins, one he couldn't quite block out of his sight and he couldn't quite heal.  His brother's hand reaching out in the darkness, fingers catching up in his, the silent acknowledgement they were never alone.  Never alone and yet, so entirely, perfectly lonely.  

Knowing they were fires raging on his brother's head, even as a kid.  His Sammy screaming his throat raw in the quiet dark of motel rooms.  Those first glimpses of the scorching burns in his baby's mind that big brother would never quite be able sooth.

Watching the tears carve paths down his red cheeks when he first realized they would never be normal, there were monsters crawling in the dark.  That hurt in his brother's eyes as Sammy realized they would never have a home except for a car and each other.  The silent acknowledgement in the air that this pain was one shared between brothers.  

Normal things, normal moments stolen out from under his brother's feet hurt in strange ways.  Ways that stole his breath away and he could never quite explain why they hurt as badly as they did.  The way his eyes stung when Sam abandoned another science fair project before he could present it, another soccer game before he could play.  No real friends, no real home.  It it weren't for each other they'd be little more than the ghosts they burned and if he believed in God, he'd thank the man for Sam every day.

Those small hurts and pains and bruises would come together in the most cataclysmic ways possible.  Funnily enough they ended in fire every goddamn time, only this time it wasn't a demon's flames.  Just Dean holding the match over the pyres they left in their wake. 

Of course, he tried to help where he could.  He tried so goddamn hard.

Dean caught up those tiny hands in his own every damn time and held on tight.  He counted each finger, listened for each breath, and waited until Sammy slipped into sleep.  Waited until his baby was caught up in dreams and didn't let go, even then.  He wouldn't let the loneliness eat his baby brother up.  If it soothed the aching in his own chest than so be it.  

Those terrible screams, always the screams that came with the dreams.  The knowledge that when he carried his brother out of that burning house, he carried out a tiny piece of the fire with him and he always felt so helpless.   _I'm here, Sammy_ and his baby boy liked the quiet singing in the dark.   Dean liked it too, as if he could give Sam a piece of the mother he would never have.  The singing wasn't because he missed his mother's soft lullabies before bed; no, it was for Sammy.  He would hold on tight to those tiny hands until his Sam slipped into softer, sweeter dreams.  Dean never went back to sleep those nights, keeping vigil over that tiny still form.  Some part of him believed he could keep the dreams away if he stayed awake for his baby.   _  
_

He gave his brother all the normal moments he could.  Stole those bikes, red and blue in that summer that was too hot and humid to breath.  Staged plastic battles with five cent soldiers, battles worlds away from the ones that raged on outside the flickering lights of cheap motel rooms.  Cheered him on at every event he could, cheered for his Sammy who was the best on the field, best on the stage because his brother was the best at whatever he wanted to be even if his dad was never there to see it.  Dean never acknowledged he liked giving those moments to his brother, liked sharing in them.  His brother could live a childhood for both of them and in some moments, Dean was almost a kid too.    

Sometimes when he helped it led to moments that crept into shakier territory and a tiny voice in the back of his head whispered _wrong_ and _not normal_.  But there was always this blurred line of morality in the Winchester house, they never lived in light and day.  It made sense that he had to give his brother a little more of himself than was normal.  They had no one else, nothing except a father that chased after a ghost of a woman that existed more in concept than in anything else.  So he helped more than he should.  Pressed up against his brother and taught him pool even though Dean knew full well his baby brother already knew how to play.  Shadowy memories of motel rooms that never quite crossed into that twisted line of _sick, wrong_  because he didn't reach out and touch what wasn't his.  Singing in his brother's ear as he taught him how to dance, knowing he wanted to keep his brother in his arms forever.  Moments when he insisted he had to give more of himself and, in reality, he was holding out a hand in the dark and hoping his brother twisted his fingers around it.    

He knew keeping the pain out was more about him than his brother, more about soothing the dark, writhing ache inside himself than anything that might be scarring up his brother's soul. And it didn't matter in the end; he had failed his brother in some unforgivable way because Sam stepped on that bus to Stanford without so much as a glance back.   He tried to shield his brother and he failed.  It shouldn't have surprised him when his brother went running in the opposite direction. 

He was a selfish bastard and he took the first excuse he could to steal his baby brother back.   _Dad's on hunt and he hasn't been home in a few days._   

He didn't know the pain waiting in the shadows, didn't know that he wouldn't be able to bear the brunt of it this time.  

The pretty girl burning on the ceiling and new dreams rage on and on in the night, terrible fire creeping into his baby brother's synapses where he can't extinguish it.  Hunting those things in the dark, all those people dropping like flies around them and with every hunt the hope for a new life, a better life dies a little more in his brother's eyes.  It's the same as the night Christmas died in his brother's eyes, only slower and it hurts Dean in an entirely new way.  Jokes and smiles and prank wars are all Dean has to offer and it won't touch this fresh grief sitting heavy on his brother's chest.    

The last of their family dies for them, burns just like the rest of them and he's so caught up in himself he doesn't see the way it carves itself into his brother.  Doesn't see the way the grief haunts his brother's eyes, like he carries the names of the dead around on his back and every one weighs a ton.

Of course, there's his father's last wish _Kill him if he can't be saved, Dean._ It won't ever happen, he will never deliver a killing blow to Sam regardless if his brother goes full darkside.  He would carry on trying to save him, day after day until the end of time before he felt his brother's blood on his hands.  

Sam wants him to do it if he goes darkside, self flagellating bastard he is,  _Promise me._ Dean promises because the kid's drunk and staring at him with sad eyes.  He's made a thousand promises, ones he's fought to keep and he figures breaking this one won't affect the score much, one way or the other.  False promises won't make him forget his baby boy thinks he deserves to die, that he deserves to die at the hands of his own brother.  Abel to his Cain like the world's most macabre salt and pepper shakers.  

Sam hates the blood in his veins, Dean can see it from the moment they learn about the yellow eyed demon and the special children.  It's enough to make him sick.  Sam looks at the veins in his arms as if he wants to bleed himself dry to to scrub sin itself from his arteries and he wants to kill the monster who made his brother feel like anything less than he is.  Dean doesn't have any words that can solve the self hatred burning under his brother's skin.   

He fails again with his brother's dried blood under his fingernails and a demon's lips pressed against his.  It hurts Sam, that year spent waiting for Dean to die like some reverse of a grieving period and they both know it will end in hell.  He knows that it will irreparably damage his brother because in the end he'll come home to a boy with foreign blood on his lips and a stranger in his bed.  

He fails and fails and fails again, crawling his way to the surface just to watch his boy dive into perdition with fear in his eyes and a devil riding his back.   

Sometimes it's hard to see the good moments through all that pain.  

The only real difference between Dean and the man in the passenger seat right now is that pain.  Dean feels remorse for the things he’s done, the blood he’ll never scrub clean.  His so-called brother seeks it out, revels in the blood of the monsters they hunt.  The suffering keeps the Winchester men who they are.  It keeps them from becoming the monsters they hunt, the creatures that crawl in the dark.  Without it they’re nothing more than predators with an especially wicked arsenal at their fingertips.

There’s some part of him that feels guilty putting all that suffering back in Sam’s body.  Because there’s so much pain etched into that soul, forged in demon blood and fire and it’s been there since the kid was six months old.  And yet, Sam’s soul is beautiful even in all it’s damaged imperfection, marked and scarred and flayed with a lifetime’s worth of grief.  And Dean may feel guilt pushing all that pain into his brother, but he also knows that without the suffering it’s not really his brother anymore.  That the pain he could never quite shield Sammy from also made his brother the perfectly flawed creature he is today.  And he wouldn’t change that for the world. 

Some things are worth suffering for.

Some deals are worth making.    

Spending day in and day out with this poor shadow of Sam is enough to make him think about going back to Lisa somedays.  Enough to make him pick up his phone and stare down at the name as if he still has a place there with the mock family he crafted when the last of his was lost to him forever. 

But the pale imitation of a man next to him is a spark of hope in Dean’s blood, a reminder of what he’s fighting for.  If Sam’s body can get out of the Cage then so can his soul and Dean will find a way.  Because that's the way it's always been.

_Take your brother- don't look back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs after the events of S6:E9 "Clap Your Hands if You Believe"


	26. Severed

Hit the ground running.  It's the Winchester way and it's not going to change now.  Not when everything's at stake.  

They're going in and at the end of this Sam will have a soul and Dean will have his brother back.  Sam tries not to think about what that means for him.  Almost as if he's staring down the barrel of a gun, dying for a man he only knows in memory and the soft, fond expressions on Dean's face.  It's taken a long time for him to accept that this part of him, cold, calculating and fearless is going to die the moment a soul's filling up the hollow in his chest. 

The threats come easy when Castiel stands in the way.  He threatens him because the angel staring at him is giving him the perfect cop out and he doesn't know if he can resist it.  

 _Don't go down that road_ and it's a warning and a threat, tangled up in the deep baritone of an angel.  It makes him wonder exactly what happened to the soul he left behind in that Pit.  He doesn't want to know and if he has to die to give Sam his life back at least Lucifer won't be waiting for him on the other end.  No Cage, no pain just a quiet merging of the man, past joining present.  Logic meets feeling and that always made Sam Winchester the man he was.  All that pain and love and hope crammed in a too big body full of too much grief.  

Castiel doesn't want him to seek out his soul and that fluffy dick should want all those morals and self righteousness put right back where it belongs.  That alone should tip him off that this endeavor isn't going to end well.  

They go to Samuel, their shared blood almost a guarantee that the old man will give his all to this mission.  Sam may not understand much about emotion these days, but Dean's taught him enough about family and blood that he knows he can trust this man.

He trusts others less, trusts the demon named Meg least of all.  He learned his lesson about _them_  a long time ago with demon blood on his lips and a warm body in his bed.  Demons feed on pain and darkness, and while he can admire the brutality held tense in every muscle of the demon girl's body, he wants her blood on his hands.  Not a drop on his lips, just knowing he wiped another piece of scum from the earth would be enough.  Close enough to the dark delight that surged through his veins when Ruby's red blood painted his lips.

It doesn't go like it's supposed to.  It never does and Sam spends most of the mission acutely aware that people surprise you when you least expect it.   

Meg proves him wrong when Hellhounds are charging, closing in and this is the end of the Winchester trail.  Sam can only think about how he can't believe he's going to die and end up as supernatural dog shit when Meg makes a decision that turns the tide.  She'll stay, she'll sacrifice herself and it's strange to see a spark of affection rise up in Castiel's eyes as her lays one on her.  While the thought of an angel/demon date is significantly more amusing than the idea of becoming Crowley's lapdog's next meal, he doesn't have much time to consider that before they're pounding down the next hallway.  They can hear Meg behind them, fighting an impossible battle against invisible mongrels.  Castiel's mouth twists up in a tight grimace and it's strange to think the man who called a drop of demon blood in Sam's veins an abomination would feel something akin to affection for his natural enemy.  People, angels, demons: they'll find some way to surprise you if you wait around long enough.  

 Samuel proves him wrong, stepping out from behind Crowley and the old Sam would"ve had the sting of betrayal raging in his blood.

The old man's offering Dean the mother he never really had, give up this empty shell of Sam for Mary and it seems like a deal his brother won't refuse.  But, Dean won't give up even this pale imitation of his baby brother.  Dean will keep his brother, _thanks_ and the sour twist of betrayal in his brother's face gives away his intentions.  Dean will kill Samuel someday and that's not something Sam thought his brother had in him.  People surprise you when you least expect it.       

Hit the ground running and you end up in a cage.  They always seem to forget that when it comes down to it.  Good thing he knows a thing or two about cages.

The blood in his mouth is his own when his demon guards find themselves rooted under the fresh blood devil's trap.  He savors the moment, red stained teeth glinting in the light as he watches those demons accept the inevitable.  Tangle with a Winchester and end up dead, or worse.  Dean and Sam filled monsters nightmares as surely as the boogeyman haunted a child's.

It's almost simple after that.  

 A facedown with Crowley is what they've come for and soon enough they're watching as the demon king goes up in flames.  His bones burn as well as any hunter's, Castiel's face an unforgiving mask in the shadows as he executes Crowley.

In the end, it doesn't matter that the maggot's dead.  It's too late, Sam knows the truth now and king of Hell's ash under their feet is irrelevant.  Sam heard enough of Crowley's self satisfied monologue to know that this mission has been futile from its inception.  

His soul's a mangled piece of meat no longer fit for human consumption and Sam refuses to die under the weight of the Cage.  Refuses to bear the brunt of a soul that's lived lifetimes in the Pit.  He was willing to give himself up for the man in his memories, albeit reluctantly.  But, he refuses to die at the hands of Lucifer.  Sam, the real Sam, wouldn't want to die that way either and, in a way, it's almost selfless of him.  To deny that flayed, damaged soul Dean wants to shove down his gullet regardless of the consequences.  He's just saving himself, what little is left of the man known as Sam Winchester.  

_I'm better off without it._

He can almost ignore the pain in Dean's eyes when the words leave his mouth.  It doesn't surprise him though.  Dean's lost his brother one final time the moment those words leave his lips.    

Of course, a Winchester hasn't ever been known to give up and that's why it doesn't shock him when Dean runs off on Death's errand.  Doesn't shock him that Dean would rather bury his brother's corpse or drive the man mad than live in the same space as the living memory of his precious Sammy.

It's only fitting the vessel should be as damaged as the soul.  Two broken pieces won't fit together.  After all, it's only a little more blood on his hands to save himself from the twisted _thing_ that's all that remains of dear old Sammy.   

It's almost simple really to go after the man he's considered a father since before he knew who he himself was.  Bobby's fear rages in his wild eyes and it's Sam's stupid mistakes that give the old man the upper hand.  The old, fat bastard should've been dead by now and it's Sam's fault that he's still fighting back.  

He doesn't care if it's his family's blood under his fingers.  It's all the scent of copper and fear in his nose.  No hard feelings, even if he doesn't have the emotion to express the sentiment with much sincerity.  

It doesn't end the way it's supposed to, strapped to that table with wizened old man Death leaning over him.

_Don't scratch the wall._

Months and years of feeling rush back in and it's something no one has ever been equipped for.  

The world's in color for the first time in months, emotion bubbles in his chest as surely as the pain does and a single thought crosses his mind as he loses himself to the pain.  

 _Dean._ It's his mind calling out for his touchstone.   _Dean._

He can see his brother standing in the doorway.  His eyes look exactly the same as the last time he saw them in that graveyard, brimming with worry and fear.  There's only one thought expressed in those eyes. 

 _Sam._   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs after the events of S6: E10 "Caged Heat"
> 
> Whoo! The end of soulless!Sam guys. Thanks for sticking around all this time and thanks for all your support!


	27. The Natural Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The natural order has never applied to the Winchesters.  
> He suspects it never will so long as he can save Sam.

When he finally gives into the urge to die he finds a professional to do it. 

Of course, he thinks professional is a little too generous for the old man in the dirty apartment.  Regardless, he trusts this man to bring him back from the other side even if he doesn't trust the man's doctorate.  And isn't that what really matters? 

This isn't the same as those grieving months ruled by his need, his want to join his brother regardless of the consequences.  No, at the end of this Sam will be at his side and it won't be because he took a desperate nosedive into the Pit to join him.  His brother, his Sammy will share his air again.  No more dreams, no more expressionless shell of man wearing his brother's face.   _Sam_ will be at his side riding shotgun and shooting him dimpled smiles when he thinks his big brother's focused on the road.  The world as it should be.

There's a needle in his arm to stop his heart and it's just one more thing he's done for his baby boy.  His heartbeat belongs to the boy with the hazel eyes, it's only right that it thump, thump, thumps to a stop for him too.  It certainly wouldn't be the first time.  Besides, he needs to have a conversation with the big man and the expression flirting with Death has never been so accurate.

He dies and it doesn't hurt this time.  If God listened he supposes he would thank him for small blessings.   

It doesn't matter how many times he meets the man, he's always a little surprised by Death.  Finding Death over some cheap Chinese food is the kind of tableau that shouldn't really exist, but Dean supposes it's better than what he always pictured Death as before the Apocalypse.  That image was a little more stock photo in nature, robes and scythe included.  In reality, he’s surprisingly friendly for an omnipotent, omniscient being that’s existed since before time itself. 

Dean's request goes over surprisingly well.  He'll have Sam home with a Wall to block out all those nasty memories, no extra charge.  Except, Death's going to be a dick about one small detail and deep down Dean knows the man’s just trying to prove a point. 

When he asks him to choose it isn’t really a choice.  

Adam or Sam.  

It’s Sam, always has been Sam.  Always will be and that very sentiment has burnt the world to ashes in its wake. 

He's not a sentimental man, not really but that singular weakness is one he'll embrace until he's ashes on his very own pyre.

The deal's simple enough, sounds too good to be true.  Wear the ring for a day and play at being Death.  Dean thinks it's almost funny that Death thinks the deal's some great challenge for him.  He's been silent death in the shadows from the first moment his hand clasped around a knife.  The gaudy ring's just a formality.

He slips on the ring and goes with the reaper named Tessa, leaving death in his wake in order to resurrect his own beloved dead.

He doesn't mind delivering death, not really.  His victims' faces confused and they all believe the same thing.   _This isn't my time._

No one's learned the simple truth of their situation it seems.  Human or monster, it's your time when Dean says it is. At least these people are accidents, heart attacks, gunshots waiting to happen, not the monsters he dispatches in the dead of night with blood under his fingernails.  Not many who die with Dean Winchester's face imprinted on their retinas go so peacefully.     

He may be the death in the shadows but the hospital room his next victim lays in is bright and he doesn't belong here.  Doesn't belong within a hundred miles of the two people in front of him and he aches for them.  Aches because he's been sent to extinguish their light, pull all that's good and bright into the shadows with him.  The role he was born to play.

Dean's watched death cloud too many faces to count.  Faces twisted up in pain, in fear, in rage.  

He sees it in the sick little girl before Tessa even speaks.  Death biding its time in the tired smile directed up at her father.  That girl fragile and broken in that hospital bed, watched over by her dad.  Her dad whose entire world's about to come shattering at his feet like too slick glass slipping from his fingers.

That man's eyes brim with impossible hope, hope that his little girl will wake up tomorrow morning and the next and the one after that.  Hope that she'll live her own life, a life doing whatever the hell she wants as long as she has a  _life_ goddammit.  Hope that tears at Dean's chest, that burns bile in his throat.  Hope that seems helpless from Death's view in the corner.    

It wouldn't hurt so much if he didn't identify with this man, this stranger.  But he does and he understands the way the girl's father looks at her, understands in a way that aches.  He would cast that same look over at Sam when his little brother's back was turned, his face lit up with all the emotion that spilled over.  It’s the face of someone who has no one left, who's entire world can be condensed to one heartbeat and it's a mask no one should ever have to wear.

That’s why he refuses at first.  He refuses because every cell of his being remembers what it is to lose your everything in a single moment and the sad, sad man slumped over in that hospital chair doesn’t deserve it.  No one deserves this, the promise of death and grief staring them down from the face of someone they love.

He spares a little girl.    

He kills a pretty young nurse.  Dean Winchester isn’t a murderer, wasn’t right up until the moment that nurse bleeds out on the table right in front of him.  She’s angry and confused and Dean’s shamefaced _“sorry”_ isn’t going to cut it. It doesn't matter that it was an accident, a fluke because the man that slams open hospital doors screaming her name has that same look on his face. 

The face of a man who has lost everything. 

Dean Winchester, destroyer of lives everybody, professional fuck-up.

Even after everything, he refuses to touch the little girl.  Tessa fumes beside him and he’s breaking every book in Fate's handbook and he refuses to lift a hand.  The nurse bled out on that table, that man's life is in pieces and he's sorry about that.  Terribly, horribly sorry.  But he will not be the man to reach out and stop a child's stuttering heartbeat.  

It is a selfish mercy that stays Death's hand.

The girl reminds him too much of Sam, a little spitfire kid staring up at her dad adoring eyes and his heart twists with the knowledge she is meant to die today.  No one so young should die.  No one so loved should leave grief so dire and potent in their wake.

The dad reminds him too much of himself.  Standing vigil over a twin bed, his entire world reduced to the tiny form curled up under cheap, scratchy sheets.  They share that, he and Dean.  His world’s been wrapped up in one person for the past twenty eight years.  When your universe is contained in something as fragile as blood and sinew you stand guard over it, even if nothing ever quite abates the fear creeping and pressing down on your chest. 

He pities the girl’s father.  At least, he’d been able to fight off the things that wanted to take Sam from him with a well-placed bullet or an exorcism.  This man can’t fight the broken valves of a heart that wasn’t meant to pump for more than eleven incredibly short years. 

It's the widower that makes him give in.  Drunk and driving and someone else will die tonight because of Dean.  Someone else is going to die and even though it means Sam’s going to rot in the Cage, Dean tears the ring off and saves that man’s life.

It’s what Sam would’ve done, selfless bastard.

Dean thinks maybe he should’ve been just a little more selfish. 

In the end, he takes the girl anyway.  He takes her and her father’s frantic in the background and he can’t quite explain how sorry he is.  He can’t explain how terribly sorry he is that her dad’s world just collapsed and the man's going to live with the awful grief of it for the rest of his life.  Dean wants to reach out to him, to say he knows what he's feeling.  The world's come to a standstill and everyone's acting like it's still turning and that's not right.  Her dad wants the world to stop in this moment, to acknowledge that everything beautiful and right in this universe just breathed its last breath.  Dean knows because he's felt it time and time again.  

At least that girl's blood isn't staining her dad's hands copper scented scarlet and that's the only comfort Dean has to offer.  As if that's something to be celebrated rather than expected.    

Pity overwhelms and chokes and suffocates his lungs watching that man.  Dean lived with that same grief for an entire year.  Grief that gifted him dreams of his shattered brother on blood soaked carpet.  Grief that twisted itself into his bones until it became as chronic and unfailing as time.  He could no sooner stop grieving than he could breathing and maybe that’s a bad comparison.  Maybe that’s a bad comparison because most days the grief made him want to stop breathing and Dean hopes that this girl’s dad won’t give into that temptation.  Or maybe he will and they’ll share a heaven.  That thought almost makes up for the shrieking alarms, the shouting nurses, the moaning father's  “I don’t understand, you said she was _better_.”

The grief in this room's a permanent one, harsh and aching.  For once, Dean understands that he and his brother are lucky.  Grief hovered and followed them until it settled in their bones yet it was always twisted up with a paradoxical hope.  Demons, angels, crossroads are irrelevant to the story.  They bring each other back no matter what it takes and the veil of death has always been a thin one.  Always just a matter of reaching out a hand in the dark.   

This man doesn't have that dark luxury.  He'll never hear his little girl laugh again, never see her smile.  This man stands alone in the world and what little mattered to him rests in the still form on that bed, pale against the sheets. 

It reminds him of Sam, laid out in that house and Dean can almost feel his little brother’s blood dried under his fingernails.  He and this man are one in the same, they’ve both stood over their individual worlds reduced to little more than unmoving blood and flesh. 

The difference is Dean has the power to fix it.  This man falls under the natural order, a cruel order that builds up lives only to pull them into the grave.  Natural order and yet Winchesters stand above it all, no price too high to send that order crashing down and bring two brothers together again.  A privilege in its own fucked up right, one that makes up for every sacrifice and loss that rests heavy in their chests.  

The natural order is this man sobbing over his dead child.     

Dean decides in that moment that the natural order will always be something to be manipulated, broken because _this_?  This pain and grief choking that man's lungs.  Dean will never have the strength to survive such a thing.

He breaks a man's life apart in a hospital room.  He breaks a deal with Death saving a man's life.        

That broken deal is just another promise he's broken and he marks it down in his unconscious tally of ways he's failed his brother.  This one's a kick to the gut because he doesn't know how he's going to get his brother back.  Doesn't know how his brother will even survive without that wall in his head.  

The shame twisting his face convinces Tessa to take him home.     

Sam waits in lockup, apparently RoboCop went for his inner Psycho and tried to sacrifice Bobby like some especially grumpy, rotgut pickled goat.  A bad day made worse by anyone's standards.  

Death waits in the kitchen, Dean awaits a lecture.  

Dean knows that he’s been taught a lesson.  He’s been taught a lesson because he’s been treading over life and death for years now, trading his soul like a baseball card for Sam's.

This was all Death's little game.  The little girl and her dad.  Sam and Dean.  Consequences that ripple outward like skipping stones in a pond and Dean wants to hate the grim faced Grim Reaper sitting across from him.  Wants to hate him because Dean sees exactly the damage he and Sam must cause every time they pull one another from the grave.     

And yet, Dean will do it again when it comes down to it.  If Sam needs him, if Sam is in danger Dean will overturn Death and fate and the natural order.  He will follow the prime directive and he will _look after Sammy_ , regardless of a universe tearing him out of reach.

Death has made him see.  They both know he has not changed his ways.  

Death goes to fetch his brother’s soul anyway and not for the first time Dean feels like the man thinks he’s just an especially entertaining monkey in a zoo.  He supposes that’s actually a pretty accurate representation for their relationship.

It's only a moment before Sam’s shouting and Dean’s taking the stairs two at a time, arriving just in time to see Death perched on the edge of his brother’s cot. 

“Don’t scratch the wall.” 

He only has a moment to think how beautiful his brother’s soul is.  Bright and pure, breathtaking.  Then Death’s pressing that light into Sam and his brother's screams are echoing off the walls of the panic room.

His brother's eyes meet his own and for the first time in over a year Dean sees his brother staring back at him.  Only one thought can break through the emotion seizing up in his chest.  

 _Sam._  

Death’s gone a moment later and Dean’s wrenching the door open, bolting for the cot in the center of the room.

Sam’s face has fallen lax, peaceful as he sleeps. 

“Sam, Sammy?”  He places a gentle palm on his brother’s cheek.  “I saved you, Sam.  You’ve gotta wake up.” 

Days bleed into one another, each one spent keeping watch over the still form of his brother.

With each passing hour he feels more like that father waiting for his world to collapse in on itself. 

It's only with coercion and begging and wheedling that Bobby finally convinces him to leave, "Just for a moment, Dean.  Get ya' some food and a shower".

He brushes his lips over his baby brother's ear, hopes his brother hears him from wherever he is in that big old brain of his.

_"Come back to me, Sammy."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs during the events of S6:E11 "Appointment in Samara"


	28. Soulmate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's long since given up hope of rescue.  
> That doesn't stop Death from interrupting his birthday party and taking the biggest slice of cake.

There's something to be said for the passage of time.  Creeping by in increments that can no longer be called days.  Long stretches, broken up into kind hands and cruel hands.  All he knows is an angel named Lucifer and a man named Dean all set against the dreary backdrop of the yellow-walled room he calls Hell.  

The passage of time creeps and crawls impossibly slow until he whispers desperate blood spittle prayers from his place in the pit.  Prays for death even though he knows God doesn't listen, even though he's never had reason to believe in mercy.  Clawed hooks sink into his skin, frigid hands demand entrance to his body, fire licks away flesh from his bones: he prays that it all ends in deep, infinite sleep.  He whispers his prayer for oblivion through clenched teeth, chokes it through gargled blood and a crushed esophagus.

Some days he believes death has come, only for a moment.  When the room falls away and he's breathing the air of distant memories he can believe all of it, the pain, the slow fading of _who_ he is, has ended.  He believes, for a single moment, he has found heaven deep in the pits of Hell and relief floods him deep and sweet.  

Of course, he always remembers.  Remembers, cold lips pressed to his own and relived memories traded for compliance.  No, the memories aren't as sweet as death would be, not a long lasting solution to his never ending problem.  But they're a close second and he relishes them, savors every moment where Dean is his again and his Cage is world's away.  

He prays for death just as he has for the last century.

It seems only appropriate that the man himself answers his prayers.   

Sam’s celebrating his sixth birthday, the elastic strap of red party hat digging into his chin as he smiles sheepishly down at the misshapen excuse for a cake sitting in front of him.

Dean’s singing in his ear, exuberantly, more than a little off-key.   _Happy Birthday, dear Sammy..._   Dad wasn’t there for this birthday, he wouldn't be there for a lot of things over the years.   

It didn’t matter though.  He remembers Dean, ten years old and already so devoted to his task-- _Take care of Sammy._ When dad had simply failed to show up, his big brother had snuck out to the store, bought enough Twinkies to feed an army and arranged them into something that resembled a cake before smothering the whole mess in a container of fudge frosting.  Six haphazardly arranged candles cast a soft flickering glow against the two little boys' faces in the early morning light and Sam knows the mess of too-sweet mush in front of him's going to taste fucking exquisite after a year of bitter blood and foreign skin clinging to his tongue. 

He thinks it’s going on two centuries now, this whole cycle of blood and memories.  That hardly matters now, when his skin's healed, his mind's clear and his brother's singing in his ear.  

"Make a wish, Sammy."  Dean beams down at him, chubby freckled cheeks and sparkling green eyes.  The candles go out with a soft puff of breath and he's wishing before he can remind himself that wishes and prayers are something he left at the gaping hole of that pit.  It doesn't stop the fleeting thought from crossing his mind.  

 _I wish I could see Dean.  Even just once._  

“Care to cut me a slice, Sam.”

He startles out of his thoughts and Dean’s gone.  His brother's been replaced with a wizened, old British man it takes him a second to recognize because it’s been such a very long time since he’s seen anyone other than Dean or Lucifer. 

“ _Death_?” his eyebrows are steadily traveling towards his hairline and he doesn’t care that he probably looks ridiculous.  He yanks his paper hat off because, yeah--now, that he thinks about he definitely looks like a 27 year old man celebrating a child's birthday.  “What are you doing here?” 

Death sighs, a put-upon noise, as he seemingly produces a knife from nowhere to cut himself a slice of the makeshift cake.  “Rescuing you, obviously.  Might as well enjoy some," he quirks an eyebrow at young Dean's best attempt at 'cake',"refreshments first.” 

Sam stares for a beat of silence.  Then he barks a laugh and it’s a decidedly unhappy noise escaping his throat as he slams his head into the table.  He tangles his fingers in his hair and groans staring at the sticky laminate table his nose is pressed to.  “Great, I’ve lost it.  I’ve gotta say I held out longer than I thought.”

Death scoffs at that and Sam lifts his head, glares at the man, hallucination, whatever.  The ancient being raises his eyebrows, purses his lips, and if unstoppable forces of the universe could look peeved than Sam would describe the other man's expression as exactly that.  “One hundred and eighty years, give or take,” he produces a fork, supposedly from the same place as the knife, poking at the gas station mash of diabetic coma sticking to the blue paper plates.  He studies a bite of frosting smeared Twinkie appraisingly, as if deciding whether or not to risk it.  “You’re sane however.  Well,” he sniffs, “as sane as one could expect under the circumstances.”

Something flutters in his chest and it takes him a moment to realize what the sensation is.  _Hope_ , he hasn’t hoped in a century and if this is real--

“Where’s Dean?” he pushes forward, seizing one of Death’s wizened hands and the other man frowns at him, gingerly placing his fork on the edge of the plate.  “I imagine where I left him.  Waiting for me to return to Bobby Singer’s.” 

Sam nods at that, releases the hand in his own with a sheepish smile.  Something dawns on him and the hope dies with a wash of icy dread. 

“What deal did he make?”  The words are quiet and he hopes desperately that Dean hasn’t sold himself again.  He can’t take losing his brother, not after all of this. 

Death smirks at him.  “I see you’re still sharp, Sam.  But, he didn’t make a deal.  At least not one for his precious soul.  After all, I can't have you starting another apocalypse trying to bring your brother back.” 

He blushes but he narrows his eyes at the older man.  “I don’t believe you.”

Death just shakes his head, goes back to what the Winchesters could consider a birthday cake.  “Trust me.  I just taught him a lesson about the natural order of things.  No harm done and you’ll be home by suppertime, Samuel.”

The room is dead silent as Death finally risks a bite and chews appraisingly. 

“Not bad.  All things considered.”  He sets it down on the table.  “Something bothering you, Sam?”

 _Home_ , he’s going home and he should feel elated, he _is_ elated but there’s worry eating at him underneath it all. 

“Everything-,” he clears his throat, “how am I supposed to deal with everything that happened here?”  He’s quiet, because they both know that’s an impossible task.  Surviving memories of cold hands and scorching fires and clawing leather.  Something tells him Death knows every moment of horror that's occurred in this Cage and it's enough to make Sam's face burn with quiet shame.   

“Easy enough.  I’ll put up a wall.  Won’t remember a thing.”

“Really?” Sam pauses, he can't keep the suspicion out of his voice.  “You can do that?” 

Death gives a dry chuckle, “I’m Death.  Of _course_ , I can do that.”

Sam feels relief, real, honest to god relief sweep through him.

The cold hands, the toolbox, the fire, all of it will be gone.  He’ll forget how he sold himself the first night and he’ll go home to Dean and they’ll go back to the way it’s always been.

“It’s almost a shame that you’ll forget.”

Sam’s head snaps up.  He can't imagine holding on to these memories, can't imagine the weight of it on his shoulders. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

"Oh, not all that nasty torture.  Best we leave that buried.  But," Death smirks at him, a far away look in his eye," all this business with you and Dean, it's very frustrating.  You two came so close to realizing it.  Or at the very least acknowledging it.  You two are very frustrating that way.”

He stares at the ancient entity across the table from him and considers what the repercussions would be if he flicked some frosting on the man.  Supernatural beings were cryptic motherfuckers, he supposed in the sake of drama.  They never seemed to realize they missed drama by a mile and just landed somewhere near dickish.  When Death smirks at him, it occurs to Sam he might be reading his mind, scratch that, probably _is_ reading his mind, and it's enough to make him clear his throat nervously.   

“What are you talking about?”

“A soul mate bond can be awfully hard to live with.”

His breath hitches in his chest at those words.  Remembers the way Ash had said it so off-handedly in heaven.  He and Dean.  Soulmates.

“Dean and I aren’t soulmates.  We're brothers.”

Death laughs out loud this time.  It’s a noise that sounds strange coming from him.

“Of course you're soulmates, Sam.  Brothers too, but that's neither here nor there.  Besides, how do you think he’s been visiting you in Hell?”

His blood turns to ice in his veins and it's with quiet dread that the realization dawns on him.  Denial has always rolled pretty off the Winchester tongue, though.  “Those were dreams.  Hallucinations.”

“You’ve never really thought that.  Not really.  You always were the smart brother, Sam."  

His shoulders tense up and he doesn’t want to believe him.  Doesn’t want to believe Dean’s seen him broken in this room, bare and bloody and shattered beyond recognition.  “Then why couldn’t I visit Dean while he was in Hell?”  It's his trump card and he feels almost triumphant because Death can't possibly have an argument for that.  

Death gives him a smile and it’s almost pitying.  If Death personified could pity someone, that is. 

“All that demon blood while Dean was away tampered with your soul.  Breaks down the bond, Sammy.  You could say it makes for a bad connection.”

The fighting, the resentment, and oh god if that’s true Ruby had fed him the one thing that could pull him away from Dean.  Nausea surges in his stomach. 

“How could we be soulmates?” He closes his eyes tight, follows the question with the phrase that has always, will always, make this love, this want, inside him dirty and wrong.  “We’re brothers.”

“Yes, you've already said that.  Besides, you think God really cares about that?”

He can't help the sneer that curls around his lips.  “ _That_?  That's incest and I sure as hell thinks God cares about _that._ ”

He hates that word, hates putting voice and word to his dirty little secret and he wants to flinch away from all the connotations that come with it.   

“You really think a little incest ever bothered God?”  Death snorts, shakes his head.  “Sometimes that’s where the really great love stories come into play.  Who hasn’t heard of Cain and Abel, after all?” 

Sam cocks his head.  “And that would be murder you’re talking about.”

“You think people kill out of hate, Sam?  You of all people should know we kill those we love too much.  Whether it's by blade or-”  he looks at Sam appraisingly, "less obvious means."    His eyes are a little colder to match the words out of his mouth next.  “Just look at you and Dean.”

He swallows hard, his mouth too dry.  He can’t quite meet the other man’s eyes when the half-truth spills from his lips.  “I didn’t kill, Dean.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a terrible liar, Sam?” 

Silence hangs heavy in the air between them.  An unspoken agreement that Sam needs a moment to accept that Death himself believes Sam killed his brother.  There's shame and guilt boiling in his blood and he feels that last name on his back.   _Dean Winchester._

"You have to understand that you may have killed your brother, but forces beyond your control were playing your puppet strings," his voice is soft and it's the closest to empathy this ancient being can manage.  "He was meant to die for you the moment your father placed you in his arms."  

"I killed my brother.  I don't think the semantics matter much."  

"Your love for one another has killed you both, more than once.  And I expect it will again, Sam."  He sighs as if he's tired after all this time.  "All that guilt won't do you much good."

That's almost enough to sooth the raging guilt bubbling up in his chest.  To think that he's not responsible for his brother's death, but some invisible force.  Blood, family, love.  Dragging them over the edge time and time again as they fall trying to catch the other.  

There's a more important question caught up in Death's implications. 

“Why would He make us soulmates?”  He laughs, a hard, cold sound.  “That seems cruel, even for Him.”  When he looks up Death’s eyes look softer, almost human.

“What makes you think he did it to be cruel?”

He stops at that.  Considers.  “What else would it be?  Incest hardly seems like some great gift.”

“A kindness.” 

Anger flares in his belly and he wishes he could break his knuckles across the smug expression on Death’s face as the ancient being pokes at the cake on the paper plate in front of him. 

“There was nothing kind about Dean and I’s lives,” his voice is louder than it should be, loud in the too small motel room.  “Especially the way I felt about him.”

The silence between them sparks with all Sam's aggression, all Death's disbelief.  It's a silently cocked eyebrow that almost makes Sam snap before the next words leave Death's mouth. 

“Do you think your life would’ve been any better if you hadn’t loved Dean the way you did?”

That stops him cold.  Would his life have been better if he hadn’t watched Dean out of the corner of his eye?  Would it have helped if he hadn’t wanted his brother more, differently than society deemed acceptable? 

No, he thinks.  No, it just would’ve been that much lonelier.  Loving his brother had been the foundation of his entire life and without it he'd have nothing except the clawing loneliness in his chest.   

“That’s what I thought.” 

“Soulmates,” the word falls from his lips softly and it’s confirmation of every wrong thing that’s ever haunted him.  Wrong twisted up with right and the Winchesters live in those muddled grey places of humanity.  The place where blood on your hands doesn't make you a murderer and the benediction of your brother's name on your lips doesn't make you a monster. 

“God isn’t purposefully cruel.  He probably thought he was doing you a favor,” Death rolls his eyes.  “Being brothers does strengthen the bond, but it does have the whole _taboo_ drawback.”

“Why would he do it then?”

“Well, soulmate doesn’t always have a romantic connotation,” Death looks almost disgruntled for a moment.  “Your Hallmark cards have done a good job at ruining the real soulmate.” 

Sam feels his brow furrow.  “What do you mean ‘real soulmate’?”

Death smiles condescendingly at him.  “Well, contrary to popular belief not everyone has a ‘soulmate’.”   He puts air quotes around the word with a sour expression on his face before he continues.  “In fact, the real thing’s infinitely more rare and infinitely more destructive.”

Destructive isn't a word he's ever associated with soulmate and he feels as if he's missed yet another beat of this conversation.   

“Destructive?”

Death looks at him as if he's an especially stupid puppy that just ruined the upholstery.  “What happens when two people love each other more than life itself?”

He can answer that question.  It’s a long answer that’s shaped with blood and bones, deals and demons.  They destroy everything in their path in order to save the other.  Dean saved Sam that first time and it tipped the scales for an apocalypse.  They came together and the world came shattering down around them.

The ancient entity sitting across from him must see the acceptance in his eyes because he continues.   

“You see what I mean?”  The older man shakes his head minutely.  “No, we can’t have _actual_ soulmates walking around.  That would be disastrous for everyone involved.” 

It doesn’t make sense then that Sam and Dean would even exist then.  “Why even make soulmates?” 

The other man looks impressed by the question, like a proud teacher answering a star pupil.  “Good question, Samuel.  They’re the harbingers of change.  They bring in the new age, new era.” 

He doesn’t understand what he means, and then- “The apocalypse.” 

Death nods, proud smile back in place.  “Exactly.  Adam and Eve brought the end of Eden to bring the age of man.  Cain and Abel, the end of innocence to bring the age of violence.  Helen and Paris, the fall of Greece to bring on the age of Rome.  One pair, just one, to bring about the change that God needed to see in the world.”

Sam swallows, meets Death’s eye with a defiant glint to his gaze.  “But, we didn’t.  We _stopped_ the apocalypse.” 

“Ah, yes.  Well, you and Dean have always been quite stubborn,” Death shrugs as if it’s an _oh well_ situation, rather than one that defies the laws of the universe.  “Sometimes humans surprise even me.”

"What does that mean for me and Dean?"  It's perhaps the most vital question of this exchange and Death's wizened face curls into a smile.

"That's entirely up to you two, Sam.  Even I have no control over that."  

There's an entirely different hope in his blood now.  The knowledge that God himself doesn't frown upon this _wrongness_ in Sam's heart.  Even some tiny chance that Dean wouldn't pull away if he were to tell his brother the truth.  Hands reaching out in the dark, fingers tangled up together under the sheets, and Sam wants to press his lips to his brother's.  Wants to reach out and see if Dean will catch him up one last time.        

Something occurs to Sam and his heart drops.  “I’m not going to remember this, am I? Not a single thing you just said.”

Death looks at him and shakes his head once. 

“So Dean and I won’t ever-,” he feels grief wash over him for what could be and it’s almost enough to make him tell Death shove his wall.  He’ll take Dean. 

“I wouldn’t say that.  These bonds, they have ways of making themselves known."  Death looks as if he knows something Sam doesn't.  "Like I said, God isn't purposefully cruel." 

Hope flutters weakly in his stomach again and he’s ready to go home to Dean, has been for going on two centuries. 

“So how does this thing work?” 

Death nods and rises from the chair, brushing crumbs from his jacket. 

Sam rises to his full height, standing tall and proud for the first time in a long time. 

Death places his hands on Sam’s shoulders and meets his gaze. 

“Don’t scratch the wall."

Darkness surrounds him and he's fighting it, fighting for consciousness.  Then there's sensation breaking through the dark and his blood sings with it.

_"Come back to me, Sammy."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs at the end of S6:E11 "Appointment in Samara"


	29. Protect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy's heartbeat pounds against his chest, his breath whooshes in his ear.  
> Wrapped up in his brother's arms he knows he will give everything if it means never letting go again.

Whiskey’s on his tongue, the article on lost plane passengers between his fingers when he hears everything he’s been hoping for.  And it’s clichéd and he would deny it if anyone asked, but it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. 

“Dean.” 

When he turns around, his brother stands in the doorway to the room and he is full of so much feeling he can’t breath for it.  He’s choking on the sheer impossibility of it and so is Sam, because it’s spilling over into the weight of his little brother's gaze.  

His eyes are  _hello_  and  _there you are_  and thank you, thank you, _thank you._

His eyes are a thousand impossibilities and it is everything it should have been six months ago.  Not the reunion when he'd woken to see that other Sam staring down at him and everything was about to go wrong.  No unease strains the moment.    

Then it doesn't matter how his brother’s looking at him, because he's crossing the tiny room and wrapping him up in warmth.  His little brother, so much bigger than him now, in his arms again. The steady thump of his brother’s heartbeat pounds against his chest, his breath whooshes in his ear and he wants to hold him there for an eternity.  Wants to press him close and never let go because nothing will take his baby brother from him ever again.  

Something bordering nasty rises up in him when Sam moves away to embrace Bobby.  Something unfamiliar and venomously jealous that wants his brother here and now and his alone.  But he can’t do that to Sam.  Sam needs his family, even if it includes someone other than Dean.  His baby brother fell thinking one of his last actions in this life was snapping Bobby's neck.  Of course he needs to cling to their surrogate dad a little bit, needs to feel the other man breathing.  That doesn’t mean Dean wants to yank Sam back towards him any less.  He still wants to pull him into another hug and feel the steady thump of his heart.  It's exactly like that first time, when he traded a kiss for his brother’s pulse and needed to ensure it didn’t slip away when he wasn’t looking.  

When Sam says he’s starving, Dean's relieved.  Sam's bottomless pit is something he can deal with, something he fix for his baby brother.  The first in a long line of reparations for not realizing the man in the passenger seat wasn’t his brother for six freaking months.  An olive branch for leaving his brother in the Cage and making this wall business necessary in the first place.  

The simple act of watching Sam scarf down a couple sandwiches makes him feel better.  Reminds him of his brother when he was a teenager and growing so fast his ankles peeked out of his jeans.  He ate with the same kind of gusto, as if he was constantly on the literal edge of starvation.  Only after that stage did he switch to rabbit food, a phase he, unfortunately, never quite grew out of.  

“So, Sam.  What’s the last thing you remember?” 

It’s a question he doesn’t want to ask.  In fact, he’d be happier turning the entirety of the kitchen into a meal and watching  him eat instead.   But he needs to know if the kid’s ten seconds from collapsing into a Lucifer induced coma.  Momentary nausea washes over him as he thinks about his nightmares: blood-stained carpet and bruises blanketing his brother’s raw, naked flesh.

He reminds himself, those nightmares weren’t real.  All that pain and horror just Dean’s worst fears played out in the shadows of his mind.  Otherwise, he'd be heaving all over Bobby’s linoleum, regardless Sam's memories.  It wouldn't matter, because he would know that Sam lived through all of that at some point.  He would know, even if Sam didn’t, and that matters to Dean.

“The field and then I fell.”

A shrug accompanies those words, but something haunted flashes in his little brother’s eyes.  If Sam remembers the field anything like Dean does, it’s certainly not a shrug-worthy moment.  Hell, Dean remembers the sheer terror clouding Sam’s eyes.  Remembers the guilt as Sam looked into the swollen mess of Dean’s face.  Dean wishes Death could have blocked that memory out too, but he knows he's already lucked out more than he had any right to.  The fact that Sammy’s cheerfully munching on Wonderbread and baloney instead of inhaling brimstone right now proves that. 

All in all the year and a half is missing, hell and soulless escapades included.   

So when he tells Bobby he wants to send Death a fruit basket he means it.  He goddamn would if all-powerful, universal forces had permanent addresses and an interest in edible arrangements.  But, something tells him Death’s existence, while full of greasy food, is void of both of those.  Not that Dean blames him, it’s something they have in common.

He should’ve known, from the moment Sam stepped into Bobby’s office, that he would immediately resort to Protect Sammy at all costs mode.  Protecting Sammy was who was, his job, his purpose and he’d failed, fundamentally so.  All he wants is to feed his brother until all that muscle softens into something more familiar.  He wants him to sleep off the residual circles under his eyes, wants him healthy.  Honestly, he could kill Robocop for staying awake for eighteen months straight.  No wonder Sam had slept for a week and still looked like he was about to drop any minute. 

'Protect Sammy' mode has him glaring at Bobby even though he knows his surrogate dad has a damned good point.  Robo-Sam tried to slice and dice him a week ago, and he'd  have to be a saint to forgive and forget that fast.  It’s not happening that fast, it’s going to take the man some time to replace Robocop with real Sam in his mind. 

Sam.  With hazel, blue, green eyes.  Sam, with a dimpled smile that lights up his entire face while he pretends Dean’s jokes aren’t funny.  Sam, who jumped into that pit and told Dean to live a life, to leave him behind, and expected that to be the end of it.

So, yeah, maybe Bobby would have to be a saint to forgive and forget. 

Thing is Dean had forgiven Sam the moment his voice sounded out behind him.  That rasp forming his name was the only apology he'd ever need.  Dean knew his brother prayed, but he'd never witnessed it.  But when Sam said his name, he imagined his little brother's voice took on the tone of the faithful, pouring out benediction.  Like he was calling out, a lost man scanning night skies for the star that would lead his aching feet home. 

It’s that 'protect Sammy' in him that has him trying to leave his baby brother asleep in bed.  He feels like a teenager trying to sneak out of to a house party, even if he knows it's for Sammy's own good.  He wants his brother to lay in bed, rest up, maybe watch Doctor Sexy for a few days.  He wants to know, just this once, that his boy is completely safe, rested and fed.  Sam deserves a few days without burning, aching, suffering for some supposedly greater cause.  Which is bullshit, because there's nothing that will ever be a cause greater than Sammy. 

He doesn’t get his wish though.  His snot-nosed brother’s there as they’re climbing in the car.

“Call me from where?”

Of course, he wants to tag along, wants to jump right back in the game just as soon as Dean got him back. and he can’t help but think of trying to force his brother to rest after he sold his soul to bring him back.  Remembers trying desperately to get his brother to take a moment to breathe after he sold his to get him back. It's like that now.  Back then he wanted to ensure the newly threaded nerves of his spine held.  Now, he wants to ensure Hell's not leaking through the cracks.  

Sam doesn’t wait this time either and in a way, it’s okay.  It’s okay, because they both need this.  Dean maybe more than Sammy this time. His little brother is his brother again and every time Sammy does something so undeniably Sam, he can’t help but smile a private, little grin.  Can’t help but smirk, savor the way his brother has come back, perfect and whole and all his.

Sam’s himself when he comforts the victim’s family, and again when he smirks and mocks Dean.  He shines, not the pale imitation from these last few months and every time Dean glances over he feels like he can breathe again.  Like life this last year was all just some horrific nightmare.

The case goes smoothly enough, despite the dragons and Sam's suspicious glances his way.  Honestly, he feels pretty bad about shattering the medieval lady’s sword, but he  gets to save some virgins and haul off a bag of gold as result. Grateful virgins and some gaudy jewelry are enough to tamp down the _oops, my bad_  feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

It’s been a pretty good day, damn it.

He should have seen it coming. 

He knows the second Sam sits down next to him, eyes glazed over with guilt and the kind of intense self-loathing Dean’s only seen a handful of times.

He used to see that same look on dream-Sam.  Saw it on that Sam with a confessional’s worth of names carved into his flesh.  He feels sick with memory, wants to press a hand to his brother’s drawn face and wipe away its twisted mask of guilt.

“I am so… so sorry.  I can’t even begin to say it.” 

And just like that Dean knows there’s going to be nothing he can say to make this alright for Sam.  There’s nothing he can tell his brother that will fix what that other Sam did.  Because, yeah, the city’s burning and the lighter's in Sam's pocket, but, goddamnit, someone planted it on him. Sam may not believe it but he's Dean’s brother, not that cold, selfish son-of-a-bitch.  Sam would never destroy people and monsters with the same disinterested expression.  As far as Dean's concerned, those two Sams, they’re not the same, not even close. 

It’s not a question of forgiving, not a question of forgetting. 

Sam, his Sam, wasn't responsible.  He is not, was not that person and even if Sam and Bobby can’t see that, he’ll see it for all of them.  He’ll see exactly how good Sam is and exactly how good Sam can be.  People like to overlook how much his little brother is worth.  So Dean will recognize it for everyone. 

Because, maybe, there’s a dark place in Sam that’s hard, cold logic.  A place, a piece that observes and calculates and makes decisions that Dean shudders to think of.  But Dean’s not going to judge that.  That, that logic, that intelligence, is one just piece of Sam.  It’s what he is without the soft expressions and kind hands, without the dimpled smiles and warm hugs.  Hard cold logic is just Sam completely separated from makes him Sam.  

Dean knows exactly what he himself is capable of.  It’s nothing as forgiveable as that intelligence, as that logic.  He saw glimpses of it in Hell, saw it as his blood soaked hands carving into the souls he hung on the rack with a fucking smile on his face. 

That, those years in hell, was Dean as close as he would ever come to experiencing life, existence, whatever without a soul.  As far as he was concerned, he was a dark, bloody, disgusting creature without one.  Hell, if he’d been in Sam’s place, he probably would've been elbows deep in intestines just for kicks.  He likes to think that those dark places don’t exist in him, shadows waiting to come out and play given the provocation.  But he’s seen his shadow, up close and personal under Alistair's gaze.  

If he has his way Sam’s not going to see his own shadow.  Sam's not going to glimpse the dead-eyed creature inside.  He has a hard enough time seeing the good in himself and that _thing_ will only cloud the man his brother really is. 

Dean knows he, personally, deserved to see what he was underneath. He needed to see Dean Winchester, without all his good intentions, all the saving people, hunting things.  But Sam doesn’t need to remember all the shit he pulled over the last year and a half.  Sam saved the world and he saves Dean a little bit every time he smiles in his direction.  So, no.  His little brother doesn't need that shit piled up on him til' he suffocates from the stench of it.   

Dean hates Castiel just a little bit for telling Sam what he did.  He hates that his brother's guilt and fear's twisted in on himself.  In this moment, he shares the face of his nightmare Sam and it's the face of a man, guilt carved into his back. 

He just got his brother back.

All he wanted was to protect him a little longer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs during the events of 6:12 "Like a Virgin"


	30. Reach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His big brother reaches out.  
> This time there aren't forces using his hands to push him away; he pulls his brother, his everything in.

There’s oxygen rushing into his lungs at the same moment his eyes open. 

His first thought is Hell is more comfortable than he thought it would be.  His second thought is that it looks an awful lot like Bobby’s panic room. 

It takes him a moment to realize that it looks a little _too_ much like Bobby’s panic room.  Lucifer must have a strange definition of torture because, yeah, the panic room's not his favorite place.  He has some choice memories of detoxing here, but, at the moment, he’s pretty comfortable on his cot.   

The place really is an exact replica, down to the old pin up poster and as he sits up on the bed, he decides he might as well explore.  See if maybe the rest of the place matches Bobby’s house.

For a moment, he thinks he’s not cold for once, actually kind of likes the sticky warmth clinging to his skin. 

He stretches, bones popping and creaking like he’s been lying on that cot for a week.  He appreciates the stretch of stiff muscles, even if he smells a little like Dean after exhuming a body. 

He crosses over devil’s traps and pushes the iron door open, salt gritty, paint rough on his palm and it occurs to him a moment later. 

_He’s not cold._

He stops.  Lucifer he hadn’t lied; he’d run cold, chilling Sam to the bone and here, in the Cage, Sam should’ve been freezing.  Should’ve been feeling the effects of Lucifer even more intensely. 

Instead, he's pleasantly warm and his heart stutters in his chest, breath caught in his throat with the sudden force of the hope crashing over him. 

If this was the Cage why would it look like the closest thing he’d ever had to a home?  Why would he feel, well, _good_ , if hungry and a little cramped up?  Why would he be warm of all things, when Lucifer was a frigid bastard in every sense of the word? 

Voices drift down the stairs, soft murmurs, and it reminds Sam of when he’d fall asleep on Bobby’s couch as a kid.  It invokes those half-forgotten memories, Dad and Bobby talking monsters in hushed tones, as he and Dean dozed on the couch with their legs tangled together. 

He tries to take the stairs slow.  Tries to tamp down the swell of hope in his chest, because living nightmares still dance behind his eyes. 

The snap of Bobby’s neck still rattles in his mind, the pulp of Dean’s face still echoes in his knuckles.  Just a moment ago, there was the terror, the falling, endless falling into that yawning dark pit.  His eyes locked with Dean’s, as he realized he would never see his brother again. 

Hope doesn’t belong in that dark pit he’d tumbled into only moments ago. 

Instead, hope takes him up the stairs two at a time, socked feet sliding over familiar dusty wood floors as he heads toward the soft murmur of familiar voices.  Haphazard piles of books sit in the peripheral of his vision; there's a pair of muddy boots  in the corner; and the wallpaper's peeling more than ever. 

It's home and it's all just set dressing.  Just a backdrop, because he comes to a halt in the study's doorway and he lets out a strangled gasp.  His back's turned to him, but he knows there's no trick here.  Knows this isn't something Lucifer has done to mess with him, because Sam could recognize his brother anywhere. 

“Dean.” 

He knows his voice sounds ragged, desperate, impossibly weighted with meaning and emotion.

Then Dean turns around in his chair and Sam can’t understand how he’d ever let his brother out of his sight.  Doesn’t understand because his brother’s face is perfect, healed from the damage Lucifer inflicted. 

Green eyes just as desperate, just as filled with love, meet Sam's, but it's different from that last glance at the Pit.  Not goodbye this time but  _hello,_ hello in the most impossible way.  It's a goddamn miracle he doesn’t break out into sobs as he crosses the room and pulls Dean tight against him.

"Sammy." 

The last time he’d touched his brother, he’d destroyed him.  Pulpy skin and wrecked bone pulverizing any hope of leaving his brother with a final good memory of him. 

Now he holds him tight, a fleeting thought of _small_ crossing his mind, despite the fact Dean would kick his ass if he ever found out.  Dean doesn’t push him away, instead does exactly what he'd done when Lucifer used unwilling knuckles to destroy his flesh. 

He reaches out, pulls him in and Sam knows that, somehow, he isn’t in hell.  He is here, with Dean, and this, this is better than any heaven.  He knows, because Dean’s pulling him in, reaching out, and the devil inside isn’t possessing  Sam’s fists to push him away.  Sam’s in control and nothing's stopping him from holding tight,   _I’m sorry_ and _I’m here_ and _I’m not going anywhere_ all in that single touch. 

It takes him a moment to notice Bobby out of the corner of his eye and he releases Dean without a thought.  Rushes the older man because he can still feel the harsh, ghostly snap of Bobby's vertebrae and he wants confirmation it's not a trick.    He wants to know without a doubt that he isn’t the only one to escape this thing alive and no worse for wear.  Wants to hold the last of his family, warm and alive and breathing.

Cass is alive, too.  He saved Bobby after Sam fucked up and let Lucifer take control, and that’s more than Sam deserves.  A little huff of laughter escapes him before he can stop it because _this_.  This is more than he could have ever dreamed of.  His family, safe and alive, and he’s not Lucifer’s bitch right now.  It’s a goddamn miracle.   

“Sam are you okay?” 

Of course that’s the first thing Dean’s asking and it’s a ridiculous question, because how could he not be?  He’s fucking fantastic with one exception. 

“Actually I’m starving.”

Three sandwiches and a beer in, he slows down long enough to actually have a conversation with Dean.  Which is good, because Dean is watching him with this rapturous kind of relief.  That face that says he’s just kind of glad Sam’s there in front of him, existing.  He thinks Dean’d be wearing that same worshiping expression even if Sam spouted off a lengthy description of the decomposition process and, normally, he'd tease him for it.  But it’s been a long time since he’s seen his brother look happy, let only _relieved,_  so he’ll leave it be.  He’ll let his brother watch him eat baloney sandwiches if it means watching him back out of the corner of his eye.  He's man enough to admit he's just a little too excited about seeing Dean too. 

Unfortunately, Dean's ' _what do you remember'_  is one question he doesn’t want to answer.

“The field.  And then I fell.”

God, the field.  Trapped inside his own body, screaming to get out, screaming at Lucifer to please stop.  Watching as Dean stepped out of that car and wishing he could yell at him to get back in his Baby and drive away.  Drive away, because maybe he and his mother would die in Lawrence, but Dean didn't have to.

Dean didn't have to die.  That didn't mean he wouldn't sacrifice himself just one last time.     

Of course, he'd hit Dean before, fought him all his life, but this was different.  Slamming his brother up against the black and chrome of the Impala, his fists connecting, crushing bone, even as he tried to pull back.  Inflicting agony on his brother, even as Dean tried to comfort him, one last time. 

_Sammy, I’m here.  I won’t leave._

Killing his brother slowly.  Hearing how Lucifer savored every snap and crunch of his brother's bone. His bruised, bloody knuckles used to turn his brother to nothing more than pulverized calcium and clotted blood. And wasn't it just like Dean to extend a hand, not to defend himself, but to bring Sam back?

In the end, that stupid little army man snapped Lucifer's control.  Remembering that Christmas Dean handed him ten dollars and they’d bought an entire army’s worth of those tiny green men.  The backseat of that car, the sound of Zeppelin IV, all of it, all those memories bringing him back.

Bringing him back so he could lose it all.

He knows it flashes in his eyes dark and painful, just a second, before he can continue.  “And, then?” 

“Um, I woke up in the panic room.”  

Then Dean’s telling him there’s a year and a half missing from his life. He can't help the momentary pang of loss before it occurs to him to ask who saved him from a 180-year sentence in the Cage. 

“Dean what did you do?”

He at least has the decency to look shamefaced when he admits to his deal with Death.  Panic and nausea rise up, threatening to send up all those sandwiches when Sam considers exactly what might happen to his brother.  Considers what his brother has traded for his life this time.     

He wonders if, in a year, he’s going to be wearing a shirt soaked in his brother’s blood while he digs six feet into the earth. 

“Slate’s clean.”

He doesn’t know if he believes that, doesn’t know if he can, but he’ll try his best to trust his brother.  He’ll try to trust that he hasn’t lost Dean, because he can't, won't do this without him.  An eternity in the Cage beats a single day of his brother rotting in Pit to save Sam's tainted soul again. 

The conversation seems to be over then.  He's dismissed like a kid, and if he didn’t desperately need a shower and a change of clothes he would complain about it.  Would be more suspicious of the déjà vu that brings to mind _“let the grown-ups talk, Sammy”_. 

He trudges upstairs, tired and ready for a hot shower.  He realizes that whatever Death did to drag him back probably exhausted some fundamental part of him.  He doubts being in hell didn't leave its mark, even if he doesn’t remember anything. 

Once the door’s firmly shut behind him, he pulls a clean towel out of Bobby’s linen closet (as always, mildly surprised the man has clean towels), before he turns the water as hot as it’ll go.  He strips off the shirt and jeans that are starting to smell a little ripe.  Which means he’s been out a few days, even if it's, confusingly, not what he’d been wearing in Lawrence. 

He makes the mistake of glancing towards the mirror before stepping in the shower and stops cold. 

It’s not the body that he'd gone into the Cage with.  The scars he remembers are gone, wiped clean, replaced by new ones he’s never seen and whose origin he doesn’t exactly understand.  He wonders, momentarily, if the new scars came from Hell, but he would think there would be more if they came from the Cage.  Actually, one of them on his shoulder looks a little like a vamp bite, and he definitely did _not_ have one of those before.  And, even with all of Lucifer's powers, it's hard to believe he was hiding a pair of fangs alongside his wings.

He supposes he could get over the scars. After all, Dean had come back missing his when Castiel had dragged him up from the Pit. 

But this was not the body he’d gone into the Cage with.  Oh sure, it was his body, but it was definitely not the same.  It was solid muscle, thicker, as if he’d spent every waking moment at the gym for the past year.  That definitely wasn’t something he’d had in the year before the Cage.  In fact, those couple of weeks before he’d lost weight, too stressed to eat much and certainly too busy to work out.  He remembers hiding it under his usual layers of clothes.  He didn’t need Dean nagging him about eating more on top of the freaking apocalypse.  This solid, healthy mass of muscle's a drastic change and he doesn’t understand whether Death thought it’d be funny to give him the body of an underwear model, or if he maybe he's missing some vital information. 

He decides to ignore it for now and slides out of his boxers, stepping into the shower instead. 

The water slides over his back in a hot rush, steam rushing up around him and he has a momentary flash of _“God, wanna watch you touch yourself, baby”._ Husky, hot memory and he doesn’t know where it comes from, but he feels himself flush as his cock twitches in interest. 

He doesn’t know where that voice, that strange thought came from, but he reminds himself this is his first shower in a year and half.  Hell, his first alone time in over a year and a half, and he wraps a hand around himself, imagining that forbidden voice egging him on. 

Even as he comes with a muffled groan he can’t help but think of cracks in walls, in dams, in bones.  Things splitting, snapping, breaking with disastrous consequences.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He goes to sleep immediately after his shower, sliding under the sheets in just his boxers.  When he wakes up to noon sun the next day, he wants to roll over and succumb to the sleepy weight in his bones.  Instead, he drags himself up, pulling on clean jeans and a button up, because he’s already missed 18 months and he’s not missing a minute more.

It’s a good thing he gets up when he does because Dean,  _asshole_ , is trying to leave him behind and that’s not going to happen.  He knows that Dean wants him to rest just a little longer, Dean will always want him to rest just a little longer.  But Sam just wants to sit in the passenger seat, complaining about the constant stream of mullet rock.  He wants to sleep in subpar motels and eat in greasy spoon diners. 

He wants his life back.

He wants everything his life was before everything came crashing down around them.  He wants the life he had with Dean before angels and demons pulled them towards heaven and hell.  If that means giving up a few extra days of rest, then so be it. 

Dean’s smiling so widely in the car it’s instantly worth it .  His big brother beams as Jethro Tull blasts over the speaker and Sam doesn’t complain, doesn’t comment when Dean purposefully sings off key.  He doesn’t order a salad at the diner they stop at, but mutters “Same, please” when Dean gets the double cheeseburger with onion rings.  He doesn’t even comment about dirty sheets in the questionable motel. 

These moments are so small, so infinitesimal and he doesn’t kid himself into thinking that he’ll always remember to cherish them.  He knows that living this life won’t always feel like a blessing.  But right now, next to Dean, who’s smiling for the first time in such a very long time, it’s everything Sam has ever wanted.  These moments are everything he thought he’d never have again and he treasures them.  For the first time, he values burger grease dripping between his fingers and the tiny motel shampoos, because it means that Dean’s in the booth across from him or perched on a queen bed just outside that door. 

Of course that means it all comes crashing down around him.  He asks for it in the end, praying to Castiel. 

Castiel, who explains that Sam wasn’t Sam for those eighteen months, walking around while his soul rotted, decaying in the Cage, even if his body didn't. 

Sam hurt innocent people, killed innocent people.  He tried to kill Bobby.  He abandoned Dean. 

It all makes sense.  His body, the new scars, the way Bobby looks at him with wariness in his eyes.  The way Dean shuts down anyone who tries to bring up the past year and a half.

He wants to beg forgiveness, wants to get on his knees and tell Dean that he can be better, will be better. 

He doesn’t.  He denies it a little longer, just long enough to rescue those girls so he can enjoy working a case with his brother.  

He waits until he’s sitting in Bobby’s garage before he tries. 

“I’m so, so sorry, Dean.  I can’t even begin…”

And of course his brother doesn’t want to hear it.  Of course, his brother denies that Sam has any responsibility and it doesn’t matter what he says.  Dean sees what he wants to see, and that doesn't include the monster hiding inside his kid brother. 

There’s nothing he can do to make this right.  But he’ll try.  He’ll try to prove to Dean that pulling him out the Cage wasn’t a monumental waste of time and effort.

He goes to bed early, after the bad news that the monsters are looking to open up purgatory.  He’s tired, not surprising considering soulless him didn’t sleep.  Just gave him that much more time to fuck up Sam's life, he supposes.  

His dreams aren't what he deserves, sweet, soft, hazy.

He dreams of photographs snapped on rollercoasters, of makeshift birthday cakes, of marijuana almost-kisses at swimming holes. 

He dreams and he doesn’t know if the images are wishes or memories or, maybe, some mix of the two.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments! This is my first fic published on Ao3 so any constructive feedback is much appreciated. Thanks for reading guys!  
> Two heads up. First, for the foreseeable future the majority of updates will be posted every Sunday by midnight and I'll occasionally post extra chapters when I have the free time. Second, I will edit published chapters as time goes on to correct minor grammar and continuity errors.


End file.
